


Moonshine Lullaby

by dedougal, tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Actors, Golden Age Hollywood, M/M, Moonshine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 38,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester sweeps up after the stars in 1920s Hollywood. He and the actors on the set are worlds apart -- and that includes his brother, the famous Samuel C. Winchester. But when an accident brings Dean face to face with a matinee idol going by the name of Jimmy Novak, he's caught up in a love story right out of a movie script... until his estranged brother comes back into the picture, bringing drama of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The hugest thanks to blue_fjords who went above and beyond while betaing this.

He was alone. Nothing new. And it wasn’t like Dean needed company to sweep the floor and check all the lights were off. The only thing he needed was the cigarette hanging off his bottom lip and the broom they’ve left him. He didn’t move out to California to tidy up like some housemaid but he reckoned it was better than sweeping up after horses on some ranch or picking fruit out in the Central Valley. His footsteps echo around the concrete emptiness as he sweeps, rhythmic.

Some people think the studios are goldmines, others imagine them as glamorous palaces, full of some mysterious magic that made the ordinary extraordinary. Or a place to be made rich beyond their wildest dreams. And Dean thought that some of them might even manage to grab one of those contracts, appear in a starring role or three. But for him it was a tomb, sealing the daylight out and trapping him in the dark with creatures he’d rather not know.

Blood-sucking demons. That’s what he’d call the producers, with their cigars, their blank-eyed stares, their ability to see dollars in everything.

Dean’s sweeping grew more furious. He needed a drink.

* * *

He was glad of the heat of the cigarette as he sucked the smoke into his lungs. Days were never cold, not really. Not like the Kansas winter back in the place he used to call home. Home was a fuzzier concept than it used to be and one that Dean couldn’t be bothered thinking about. He let his thoughts slide back to the real stars in the sky, familiar constellations marking out their unchanging domains. Fuck knows when he got so sentimental. Probably somewhere between turning down the blonde chick and his ninth whisky.

Then he remembered what he’d been thinking about. Cold. It got real cold at night. His coat wasn’t really heavy enough for this. He sped up, flicking the ash from his cigarette and sucking another warming draught in. He’d been thrown to see Sam in the backroom of that particular restaurant, that was all. Everyone knew it was a front for one of the dozens (if not hundreds) of places where a man might get a decent shot of whisky but Dean still thought of his baby brother as someone too innocent to do more than stare disapprovingly at Dean when it was mentioned.

Sam. Samuel C. Winchester. Who knew what the C stood for? Sam had never needed a middle name before he got his break. But here he was, expensive suit, slim black cigar, gold rings on his fingers. Girls - they definitely weren’t women - hanging off him in furs and sparkles that might even have been diamonds. And this ridiculous line of a moustache, curled with wax at the ends, hugging his lip like a worm. He’d slicked his too long hair down, thrown his head back laughing too loud and had the eyes of the entire place drinking up his charisma, his generous warmth. His arrogance.

Dean had to look twice to check it was his shy, bookish brother.

And that had led to the “leave the goddamn bottle” demand and the approach of a girl too dowdy, too old or just possibly too smart to join Sam’s little harem. Which, in turn, would no doubt lead to Dean’s aching head in the morning. If the cold didn’t sober him first. Dean’s steps weren’t entirely steady and his path wavered over the strip of beaten down dirt at the edge of the road. He couldn’t find it in himself to care when he tripped and landed full out on every sharp stone in existence. Not even when his hand came away wet and red from his head.

The stranger rushing to his aid seemed to be more worthy of his attention. A firm warm hand grabbed his shoulder to hold him up, and from the instant of contact, the confusion that had been clouding Dean’s mind started to clear. It was like having the sunrise on his back, and he straightened up easier than he thought he could, found his balance quicker than he had any right to. A touch like magic. Odd as that thought was. Dean searched upward to find the face to go with such improbably magical hands.

These days in film, when a leading lady appeared on the screen, the camera went into a sort of fuzzy, gentle place; Dean had overheard directors and cameramen talk about it as “soft focus.” That’s what this man looked like, with distant lamplight gently illuminating his face -- like he was a man on film, surrounded by a barely visible background, with light in his eyes and skin so smooth it couldn’t be real. Like an oil painting come to life. In the dark, the blue in his eyes was barely perceptible, but it was there, and his pupils glittered. His smile was gentler and more mysterious than any of the screen sirens of the day. And as he stood, his hand still firm on Dean’s shoulder, Dean thought for a moment that the sound of cars in the distance was instead the soft hum of violins on the soundtrack. He’d dropped into a movie and found himself face to face with a leading man.

“Are you all right?” the man asked, his brows furrowing in concern. His voice was rough and low, and completely incongruous coming from that soft-focus face. “Can you stand?”

The throbbing in Dean’s head returned just in time to stop the flow of coherent thought. “I,” he said, and then “Ugh.” He reached up and found the wet spot where he was bleeding and poked at it, dully, blinking.

“I didn’t think so.” The stranger reached up to bat Dean’s hand away from his wound, then gently pressed at the tender area around it. Dean winced. “It must have been a bad night.”

“It wah--” Dean started, and cut himself off with an “Ow.” He started again. “My bruh--”

A finger across his lips. Dean fought back an urge to purse them against the intrusion. “You’re drunk and you might have a concussion,” the man said. “I should take you to the hospital.”

Dean tried to shake his head. It hurt too much, so he just frowned. “Get arrested.”

“You need a doctor.” The insistence in his voice was starting to grate in Dean’s already-throbbing head. “Come with me.”

“No doctors.” Dean shoved him away roughly. He was starting to come back to himself now, and the himself he was coming back to was ornery and disillusioned. He didn’t want some stranger coming in and taking away his pride when it was the one thing Dean felt he had left. “You hear me? I said, no doctors.” His voice rose to a shout, and the street that had been alive with the music of cars and wind now seemed distressingly empty of all other sound.

The stranger stepped back and regarded him. “All right,” he said finally. “No doctors. At least let me take you home and bandage up your head right.”

Dean peered at him. “You a doctor?”

“No.” The man almost smiled at that.

“Then what?” The situation was almost funny now.

“Come along.” The stranger slung an arm around him and pulled him along the sidewalk; Dean’s unruly feet tried their best to cooperate, but he was having trouble keeping them coordinated when the night was cold and this man’s body was so very warm in contrast. He was hauled around a corner and into the seat of an automobile. “What’s your name?”

An automobile, how long had it been since Dean had ridden in one? Since his brother had stopped inviting him along to parties, maybe. “Dean.”

“Dean.” The name sounded heavy on the stranger’s tongue. “We’ll be home shortly.”

Dean nodded, and his head lolled back. He should ask all sorts of questions. He should ask where they were going. He should ask why the man had been walking along the road in the middle of the night. He should ask his name. Instead Dean gave in to the pull of the black. He didn’t remember the rest of the ride.

* * *

The whisper of car tires on gravel woke him. The sound was different enough from the rumble of the road that Dean knew they’d reached their destination. There was another noise, a constant whispering. He opened his eyes, tried to straighten from his sprawl across the seat and the man stopped him from sliding to the floor of the car. There was a persistent throbbing in his head, drink and injury combining to make his eyesight dark around the edges. He was aware of voices, soft, trying not to disturb him. Then the car door opened, cool breeze pricking at where his shirt had ridden free from his pants. Gloved hands lifted him up and then he was being half carried, half led through an arch into a courtyard filled with greenery. Another rumble of voices and he was inside again.

The bed facing him had white sheets. Something in Dean rebelled. He was bleeding, he’d fallen, he was covering in dust from the road and dirt from his work and he wasn’t worth ruining those sheets for. He could take the floor, he’d done it often enough.

That low rumble started again and then those hands that seemed to draw the pain from his limbs and the weariness from his bones brushed over his forehead, down his neck, along his arms. He was held up while his boots were removed and he remembered the hole in his sock too late. Those hands just held his ankle still - not hard and harsh like he’d been held before, but with enough strength to let Dean know not to fight, to let him know that he was in the right hands.

Time seemed to shift again. Dean was lying back on the pillows, a wet towel wiping at his head. That noise again, an incessant hush hush hush, seemed to be telling him to let his heavy eyes close, to let himself sleep. He fought against the urge, frowning at the low chuckle.

“Knew you were made of stubborn stuff, Dean.” It was the voice from before. Dean blinked away the darkness to see the stranger, lit only by one soft lamp, holding his wrist and smiling in a lopsided way. None of his glow had gone, that focus that seemed to make him otherworldly almost. “I should have guessed you’d be iron through and through.”

“More like piss and vinegar,” Dean responded, feeling a little too laid bare for his own comfort. Beyond the man a window must have been open, judging by the way the gauzy white curtains seemed to flutter. A strong gust caught one of them and Dean had to blink his eyes to clear the sudden impression he’d got of wings rising proud from the stranger’s back. He really was delusional now. Concussion sounded right.

The towel came back, freshly damp. Dean let the gentle motion sooth his eyes shut, let himself give in to the whisper to sleep, to rest, to trust the stranger...

It was only when he shot bolt upright the next morning in the stranger’s bed that he realised what he’d been seeing. He’d been taken for a ride by none other than James Novak.

Now it all made sense -- the way he’d looked in the dim light, the feeling that Dean had dropped into some sort of movie-madness dream. He really had been with a leading man that night, and not just any leading man. The one they called the Heart of Hollywood, the one whose soulful eyes and good looks were making women of all ages quake and scream whenever they saw him onscreen. “Jimmy,” they called out to him in the newsreels sometimes, “we love Jimmy,” and here Dean was in that same Jimmy’s bed, looking out his window at the proud blue Pacific, his head wrapped in bandages that had been laid on him carefully by a movie star.

He was embarrassed to even be there.

It had to be some sort of mistake. James Novak had thought Dean was an old friend, had mistaken his face for someone else’s and by the time he knew better, he’d already extended the invitation. Or this was some sort of a fiendish plot and he’d been drugged, hallucinated the whole thing. But the way his head throbbed spoke to a good old-fashioned hangover, and Dean couldn’t figure out any other way he’d been put into this bizarre position. He was in the house of Hollywood royalty, and he didn’t belong.

Dean scrambled to his feet. His bruises protested mightily, but his pride was stung even further, and he hurried about the room, squinting to keep the sunlight from hitting his eyes too directly, and tried to gather up his things. With any luck, he could be dressed and out the door before James Novak was even awake to find him there, littering up the place like an unkempt mouse. He knelt to grab his boots from the corner and paused when he caught a glimpse of his sock.

The hole in it had been mended, painstakingly. Dean’s heart sank. He was someone’s charity case. He might have known. Humiliated, he slid his boots on and made for the door.

“Going somewhere, Dean?”

The words almost threatened, but Novak’s gaze was level, and he stood almost jauntily, head tilted and shoulder pressed against the doorframe.

He was even more gorgeous in the morning sunlight, his features softer, but his eyes and smile that much more relaxed. Crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes as he leveled a pleasant gaze at Dean. Dean wanted to stand and gape, to drink him in. He’d never been in the presence of a movie star before, this close up and intimate. Sam was one thing, but... Sam was just Sam. This was completely different.

“I was just gonna get out of your hair,” Dean said, gesturing awkwardly. “Thanks for everything, but I ought to go.”

“You ought to stay,” Novak said. “You were hurt pretty bad last night and you can’t be having a good time waking up.” His smile widened, and Dean could suddenly taste his heart in the back of his mouth. “Stay. Rest a little longer. There will be breakfast when you’re ready.”

Dean looked around for an escape, or an excuse -- something that would keep him from accepting Novak’s offer. None appeared. He gave a lame little smile and met the man’s eyes.

Novak seemed to understand Dean’s acceptance of his fate.He slipped through the doorway, leaving the door wide, and padded through to the rest of the house. Dean scrubbed his hand over his face. He looked around again, trying to regain some dignity, some bearings. Instead he took in a room that was surprisingly simple. Everything was quality, expensive, but there weren’t gold lined ashtrays or anything. It was almost austere - polished wooden floors and lots and lots of windows. The whole room seemed designed to let as much light in as possible.

Dean clambered to his feet, wincing a little as his boots clattered on the floor. Novak had been noiseless as he made his way wherever he was going and wherever Dean was following. The rest of the house seemed equally plain as Dean followed the sound of someone whistling through white walled hallways tastefully decorated with the odd painting. It didn’t exactly scream movie star. Windows lining one wall of the corridor offered glimpses into the courtyard Dean thought he’d dreamed last night. Plants spilled out of containers placed around the bases of palm trees, a veritable oasis. It looked cool and shaded out there and Dean’s aching head made him pause beside an open door and step out.

Either it had rained or Novak’s gardener had just finished up, for the first thing Dean noticed was the way the morning sun caught the droplets of water that seemed to bejewel every leaf. He was so caught up in his contemplation of green and light and the wet, damp scent of the earth that he missed Novak’s presence until the scent of fresh coffee drew his attention towards the man.

Dean waited for his heart to slow, to stop trying to pound out of his chest. He was expecting Novak to look more ordinary out here, in daylight, sober, yet the man’s long eyelashes, the way he tilted his neck looked every bit as astonishing as it did when his face was twenty feet high on a movie screen. Dean knew he was spending too long looking but Novak seemed resigned to it, holding out a second mug towards Dean, steam drifting lazily into the warming air. Dean had to shift closer to take the mug, glancing down to see Novak’s feet were bare (which explained the noiselessness) and coated in dirt.

“You must have a really great gardener,” Dean blurted out, in excuse and explanation.

Novak shrugged. “My chauffeur waters the plants when I am unavailable.” His voice still sounded like gravel mixed with coal, rough and dark. Dean leaned forward to hear more, before realising that Novak must be responsible for the garden by himself. He snorted when he thought of Sam looking after anything like that. The only thing Sam had learned to take care of was himself. Dean supposed that was what happened when other people had spent their whole lives looking after you, taking you out west to look after you when your father died, supporting you through those early auditions...

Novak was watching him in a way that Dean thought should make him uncomfortable,but felt non-judgmental instead. He was merely getting to know Dean, trying to understand him. Dean shrugged. “It’s nice.” It was all he could think to say for all that it was completely inadequate. The small bit of praise brought a shy smile to Novak’s face, though, as if he was pleased for his plants.

They re-entered the house through a door that led straight into an airy kitchen, French windows open to the ocean on the far side, a veranda set with a table, chairs and a sun lounger jutting out in the sand. There was no one actually on the beach outside, bar a few gulls bobbing up and down on the gentle swells. Novak led the way through the room, stepping out and putting his mug on the table. He drew out a chair and looked expectantly at Dean. Dean scrabbled to get into the seat, feeling inadequate at the welcome. He’d be ashamed to have Novak return to his own cramped apartment, shoebox living at its best.

Dean sipped his coffee and tried not to startle when Novak showed up with a plate of eggs and toast for them both. The silence between them made Dean twitch nervously.

“So do I call you Jimmy since I slept in your bed and all? Or is it Mr. Novak?” Dean tried to cover his nerves with a mocking edge. He was sure that Novak didn’t quite fall for it.

“James Novak is my screen name, if you will.” Novak patted at his lips with a cloth napkin before carrying on. “My _nom de guerre_. I prefer Castiel.”

“Cas-ti-what?” Dean blurted out, sand shifting under him once more.

“Castiel.” The man in front of him drew out the word slowly, each syllable lingering in the air in front of them. “The studio said they ‘liked the looks but hated the name’.” Castiel drew air quotes around the statement, the twist in his mouth betraying his distaste. “Too foreign, they said.”

Dean nodded. Maybe that was where the new C in his brother’s name had come from too. He applied himself to his eggs, feeling a bit of a fool. Every presumption he’d made about Novak — Castiel. He liked Castiel better. It seemed to contain more of the essence of the man, something mildly otherworldly and strange — was turning out to be wrong. Dean wasn’t used to that. He could normally judge a person with one glance, feel out their history, their story. What they wanted from him. He had no idea whether Castiel wanted anything from him, not even his thanks.

He dug his boots into the sand. Around them, the particles shifted, falling into a groove, and he wished he had bare feet, if just to feel the texture of it all, to bury his toes as though he could grow roots in the earth. With the sea blowing salty air toward his face, and the sun on his back, he felt detached from reality in this place. He wanted to ground himself.

Castiel was gazing at him, almost unblinkingly, his chin lightly propped on his hand. “You look uncomfortable,” he said. “Do you need some aspirin?”

Dean realized his brows were pulled into a knot. He hastily relaxed them. “No, I’m good.” He stole a glance at Castiel -- blue eyes, pursed lips, even features all hitting him in a flood -- and averted his gaze again, staring into the sand. “Nervous, but good.”

“Nervous?” He could practically hear Castiel’s head tilt. “Why?”

Dean frowned. “That’s my question.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you doing this? Why not just let me get out of your hair? I don’t belong here, in some movie-star mansion. I’m a freaking janitor. You ought to kick me out before I bring down your property values, for Christ’s sake.” His jaw snapped shut.

Castiel regarded him silently for a long time, long enough to make Dean wriggle like an insect under a microscope. He felt more out of place now than before he’d opened his trap. Now Castiel knew he knew his place, so what the hell was he still doing here?

“What?” he finally said.

“You think you don’t deserve to be here?” Castiel spoke slowly, methodically, as though he were just figuring out the words he was saying. “Why?”

Anger flared up in Dean, red-hot and uncomfortable. “What do you mean, why? You’re Jimmy freaking Novak. I’m nobody.”

“You’re my company at the end of a long day,” Castiel said. “To me, that’s everything.”

All words fled, and there had been a bunch of them, bitter ugly words that would have spit themselves from Dean’s mouth without hesitation. He found himself staring at Castiel. This strange, beautiful man, with a house on the beach and a chauffeur and millions of adoring fans, said without skipping a beat that Dean was worth everything. Just for being there, just for being company. Hangover and all.

Then his mind percolated around the words one more time and found something odder even than that sentiment. “Wait a sec,” he said. “Did you just say... the end of a long day? As in, now is...?”

Castiel smiled briefly, and he ran a finger around the edge of his mug. “I’ve been at the studio since three a.m.,” he said. “I was late, because I stopped home to take care of you, but after you lost consciousness, I went to work.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean stole a glance at the sky. The sun was climbing high overhead, but the house cast a shadow over the sand. It was late morning, but it was still morning. “So what, you found me keeled over on your way to the office?”

“My driver dropped me off downtown. I prefer to walk part of the way. It wakes me up.” Castiel said it all so calmly and with such little intonation that if Dean didn’t know he was a good actor, he might be convinced it was a line, scripted and spoken without expression. Either that, or he was ashamed to be saying it at all. But that didn’t make any sense.

Then again, none of this made any sense, but dreamlike, the reality persisted -- a breakfast that was a dinner, in a morning that was an evening, Dean and a man who looked ever less like a movie star and ever more like another simple, lonely man as Dean stared at him. “So that’s how the other half lives, huh?” he said, picking up a crust of toasted bread from his plate and chomping on it. “Up at midnight, to bed at dawn?”

“Today was merciful,” Castiel said. “I shot five scenes and was done for the day. It’s very tedious.” He said it, again, without an inch of bravado or sarcasm, and Dean found that he believed him. His job was boring too, and it’d be boring even if it won him awards and fame and fortune. Who said every actor had to love what he did? It was nearly a relief to think that the celestial creature known as a movie star could find his job just as full of drudgery as the average janitor.

He nodded. “So’s mine,” he returned with a short laugh. Castiel answered his smile, and their eyes caught for a moment of simple connection in the morning sunshine.

The silence that resumed was easier to bear and Dean set to his food with a vengeance. The ache in his head drifted from the persistent throbbing of hangover dehydration to something dull. He’d bashed his head hard when he’d tripped and, when he lifted his head quickly to check Castiel was still there, his vision swam for a moment.

Castiel seemed aware of Dean’s problems, letting a hand drop to Dean’s shoulder to steady him, long fingers curling around to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing his hair line for a moment before trailing down his arm. An ugly thought - that Castiel only brought him here to feel him up - shot through Dean’s brain. He’d become a little too adept at dodging passes from stars convinced a janitor would be rough and eager for it. But Castiel only let his hand linger long enough to set Dean upright. Then Castiel stood and gathered his plate and mug, drifting back through to the kitchen without another word. Dean took another bite of his eggs, though they were nearing that cold rubbery state that turned his stomach.

Castiel came back with the coffee pot, filled Dean’s mug fresh, dropped a couple of small white pills on the table and headed back into the house. His bare feet hardly made any sound on the deck.

* * *

Dean’s thoughts couldn’t settle after that. He cleaned his plate, drank the coffee, swallowed the pills and watched the waves roll up the sand. The sun was starting to get a little too much for his comfort when Castiel came back. He’d lost the suit, now, wearing blue pyjamas. Not silk, not monogrammed. Just plain pyjamas that made his eyes startle Dean all over again.

“I’m going to bed.” Dean couldn’t make out the tone of his voice. Castiel spoke so evenly that anger or lust or disappointment was completely obscured. “You can stay or Chuck can take you home. There is a telephone to call your work if you want to. And food in the ice box.” Castiel didn’t wait for a response. Instead he turned to head into the house. That made Dean mad enough to speak, finally.

“So you trust me in your house?” Dean knew he sounded a little pathetic.

Castiel had one hand on the door frame and he turned to look over his shoulder in an unconscious echo of one of his movie star shots. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Those eyes seemed to look right into Dean. “Which bed are you in?” That got a reaction. Castiel’s shoulders hunched, pulled tight. Dean panicked, thoughts racing, before he worked out how to explain. “I don’t want to disturb you, wake you up.”

The stiffness eased in Castiel’s body. “So you’ll stay?”

Dean nodded, coughed around the lump in his throat. “Yeah.” It was hoarse, but he choked it out and watched Castiel for as long as he remained in sight. The thin pyjama material clung to broad shoulders, a narrow waist Dean could fit his hands around, a tight, round ass that was straight out of his dreams. Lean thighs were hinted at. It had been a while since Dean had looked so clearly at another man. He scrubbed his hands through his hair and cursed silently.

* * *

He started his ‘say thank you to Castiel for taking care of me’ mission by washing the dishes in the sink, careful to not let the cutlery bash off the metal. Dean had to open a million cupboards and drawers before finding the right place to put them away. Then he took off his boots and padded around, exploring. In the noontime hush, with bright sunlight streaming in all the windows, Dean had the feeling of being a thief, stealing away a moment of luxury in a landscape he might never see again. He grinned as he moved through ivory doorways, slid across burnished wooden floors and into the path of lazy sunbeams. It was the same feeling he had when he swept out studio sets. He wasn’t the type to start dancing with his broom, but Dean did sometimes look into the imaginary cameras and pretend, just for a moment, that he was someone else.

From the hallway he crept into a small library, the most ornate of all the rooms he’d seen so far. An elaborate rug drew patterns of paisley and floral beneath his feet, and a leather chair provided a solitary place to sit and read, or view movies on the projector mounted just behind it on the wall. Dean sat down there briefly and imagined he was a rich mountebank, chomping a cigar and calling for another glass of wine as he reviewed his own greatest hits on newsreels or film.

But thinking of Castiel sitting here saddened him for a reason he couldn’t define. Curious, Dean sneaked back to review the films that were meticulously labeled along a low shelf below the projector. He saw a number of the great pictures of the day, along with some of the silents from the past decade, but there was a tremendous gap in his benefactor’s collection: None of the movies there featured one James Novak.

That didn’t make a whole lot of sense to Dean. Sam, he knew, had all his old films - he kept the reels even before he’d made enough to afford a projector. It just seemed to Dean that that’s what you’d do if you were a big movie star. And if you looked the way Castiel looked, why wouldn’t you want to see yourself all done up and lit beautifully? But maybe he was wrong. Maybe Castiel kept his own films in a secret vault. Safer that way.

Or maybe the world wasn’t at all the way Dean figured it was. He was getting that feeling now, increasingly, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Exiting the library, Dean wandered a little further along the hall and stopped in front of one of the broad windows. The courtyard outside was lush and green, like a jungle had sprung up in the arid California climate, but well-manicured, too -- each leaf and blossom had its place, and all of them reached up toward the sun in unison, like a hundred Hollywood hopefuls.

So what kind of a guy let this garden grow and wandered through it barefoot? What kind of guy woke at midnight and went to work with a borrowed name, then came home to sleep as the sun was rising? And what was Dean, that this kind of man would upset his own meticulous schedule to help him out, then beg him to stay even after Castiel had gone to bed?

The puzzle was maddening, and Dean frowned out at the sun-drenched plants. He knew that once he left this house he’d likely never come back. He might never have the chance to solve that mystery if he didn’t solve it now. So in spite of the low voice in his head that said _This is a terrible idea_ , Dean turned and shuffled carefully toward the door at the end of the hallway.

The door whined slightly as Dean pushed it open; for a moment he was afraid it would wake Castiel, but after the first few inches it fell silent again and Dean was able to enter quietly. The light in the room filled his eyes. He wondered how anyone could sleep like this, with the breeze coming in from the beach and the white curtains amplifying every ray of sunlight until the room was almost blindingly bright. And then his eyes fell to Castiel.

Dark hair on a white pillow glittered as though metallic. Tousled, it lay matted against his forehead in some places, spiking into the air in others. But his face was slack, and pale as the bedsheets, save slightly pursed lips that blushed pink against his white face. His eyelashes, dark and thick, fluttered on his cheeks.

The soft blue pajamas he wore hung loosely from his shoulders, and his hand was bunched in the comforter like a child might clutch at a stuffed animal. In his sleep, he snuffled briefly, licked his lips and then fell still again, the pajamas parting to offer a glimpse of his collarbone and chest. Dean held his breath. He looked innocent, buried in the mountains of sheets and comforters and pillows, as though he might be lost within them. Dean felt an urge to reach in and pull him out before he was buried.

His body buzzed with the tantalizing idea of contact. Of sliding into that bed and pressing his body to Castiel’s, holding him close, arms around his waist, breathing in the scent of his skin. A lurch of want burned through him. Dean eased the door closed, his hand shaking. He started to lean against it, sliding down until he was sitting, back against the door and head clasped in the hands balanced on his knees. The quiet of the house made its way into his breathing, into the thundering of his heart. The sounds faded into the background again where they belonged. The omnipresent sweep of the ocean seemed to draw the sudden panic from his body until Dean was nearly tranquil once more.

He knew. Of course he knew. He’d known since he was a boy that sometimes a man, a youth would draw his attention in a way that would result in a furtive, sweaty and altogether too shameful session locked in the bathroom on his own. He’d received looks of his own that he wondered were reciprocal invitations, been bought drinks where men’s eyes lingered on his lips for too long. He’d let an older man kiss him, press up against him once, on the way out west. He’d taken the money the man offered and hidden the source from Sam, and used it to feed them without dipping into their reserves for a week after they’d hit Los Angeles. He’d turned down other offers from men used to those doing their will without thought.

It had never felt like this. Never felt so real, so wanted. He cursed his imagination as it provided vivid images of bodies twisting together, his back arching, lips, teeth, tongue. Dean waited for his heartbeat to return to normal once more, ignoring the other tug of possibility, of him and Cas sat on the veranda, looking at the sun rising over the ocean, together alone and perfect and untouchable. Dean crept back down the hallway, slowly, carefully, dreading waking Castiel and being caught watching. In the end, he returned to the kitchen, found a newspaper lying on a counter and sat outside to read, letting the warmth of the sun and the quiet lead him into a soft doze.

* * *

Hunger woke Dean. He sat up, grabbing at the newspaper falling from his lap. He had no idea how much time had passed but it was enough to make his skin feel tight with too much sun and his throat parched. His stomach growled as he pushed himself up from his seat. “Alright, alright.”

The door into the house was open as he’d left it but there was a new person in the kitchen. Not a stranger to the place either, by the way she moved deftly around the space, opening cupboards and pulling out ingredients and utensils. Dean didn’t want to invade her kingdom but he coughed slightly and knocked at the door.

“Mr Novak said he had a guest,” the woman told him. “I’m Marta. I do for him and I guess I’ll be doing for you while I’m here.”

Dean nodded stiffly. He didn't know what that meant, doing for Castiel, but he had a hunch it was fairly benign. Nothing like someone might offer to do for Sam, or any of the other stars who strutted through town like they owned the world.

He nodded as though he understood. "Yeah, sure." Shaking the sleep from his eyes, he came to sit at the table and watch Marta bustle around the kitchen, humming to herself. "Hey, uh... Marta, was it?"

She turned, her smile pleasant. "Yes, sir?"

"Can you tell me about him?" The name "Castiel" was seared into his brain, but that's not how she referred to him. "Mr... Novak? What kind of a guy is he? A good man? Not--" He gestured vaguely with his hand. "Wild and crazy?"

Amusement pinked her cheeks. "No, not crazy. Mr. Novak is.... quiet. He keeps to himself, he likes to read." She paused a moment, likely weighing the words on her tongue. "I think he is," she added carefully, "lonely."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know that feeling." He sat back again in the chair, pondering what he'd heard. It seemed like his assessment of Castiel was on the money. And his heart was throbbing, as though it had grown too large for his ribcage, with the knowledge that Castiel was lonely, perhaps as lonely as he was. He knew well the longing to be with another human being but no knowledge of how to start. What a gift a fainting man in need of care might seem to someone who was desperate for a companion. Dean was starting to be almost glad he'd ended up planted on that sidewalk, lingering pain in his head notwithstanding.

The sun flashed a bright spot across his vision, tinting the world red. Dean drew in a sharp breath. "Marta, what time is it?"

She tiptoed to the doorway to peek at a clock in the other room. "Is six o'clock."

Dean stood abruptly. "I'm gonna be late for work." He looked around briefly and bit his lip. "Do you think that guy, uh, Chuck, could give me a ride into town? Frankly, I have no clue where we are. I was half-out when I got here last night." Marta squinted as she watched him, and Dean could tell she was picking up on about half his words. He turned to her and said, slowly and loudly as though she were deaf. "Chuck. Driver. Where's Chuck?"

"He'll be out front if you need him," said a low voice. "Are you leaving, Dean?"

Dean turned. "Hey, Cas..." The name disappeared on his lips. Castiel stood with a robe pulled loosely over his pajamas; his face was pink from being pressed into pillows so long, but his eyes were bright with restfulness. He looked more alive than Dean had yet seen him, and there was a sharpness, a purpose to his gaze that stole Dean's breath away.

Dean ambled forward, trying to appear put-together. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. It was comforting knowing someone was in the house with me."

Dean frowned. "You got someone here. You got Marta here."

"Marta is different."

Castiel stepped forward. All at once he was uncomfortably close, and Marta was humming in the background. The whole situation was feeling somewhere between embarrassing and claustrophobic. Dean retreated. "Look, I'm grateful for your hospitality and all. I got work. Supposed to start at six, though I'm gonna be late. Do you mind if I borrow your driver? I got no idea where we are and..."

"Dean." One syllable and Dean was silenced. "Come outside with me."

Saying no wasn't an option. Dean took a breath and followed Castiel out to the deck overlooking the beach. Behind them, Marta's hums faded away as she headed into another room. The solitude settled over Dean like a weight, and he felt infinitely small, dwarfed by waves and sunset, by a beautiful house and stunning blue eyes.

"May I ask you a favor?" Castiel said. He licked his lips. "And before I do, please know that I will understand if you refuse."

In the orange light he looked otherworldly, like he'd been painted with oils. Dean swallowed and nodded.

"How long do you work?"

Dean thought about it. "'Bout five or six hours. I take out the trash, sweep the floors, clean the bathrooms, turn everything off--"

"So you are finished around midnight?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah." Dean wanted to ask why, but he couldn't seem to get the frog out of his throat no matter how many times he cleared it.

Castiel leaned forward and laid a hand on his forearm. Lightly, but the contact sent a conduit of warmth up through Dean's arm and into his cheeks. "If I were to send Chuck out to pick you up afterward," he said, "would you come back?"

Dean sucked in a breath. The heat in his face was turning his vision cloudy.

"Is there someone who might be waiting for you?" Castiel went on. "A wife? Or girlfriend?"

Dean shook his head. "No. There's my brother, but he doesn't care."

He winced as he said it, and he could feel Castiel taking in the motion, analyzing and trying to understand it. He forced himself to meet Castiel's eyes and found compassion there, warmth that calmed the pain like a salve. Castiel went on carefully. "Listen, Dean. I don't know you very well, and I don't think that you know much about me--" He paused, looked down at his feet, and shuffled forward a step. His hand fell from Dean's arm to his wrist, then his hand, cupping Dean's fingers gently in his own. "But I feel as though there is a reason I met you when I did. A reason your presence--" A smile darted across his face, and Dean could see a flicker of nervousness as his features jumped. "--is so comforting to me. And I would like to learn about you..."

He was struggling to find the words, this Hollywood man whose name was up in lights across the country, and Dean wanted more than anything to help him. He curled his hand under Castiel's so their fingers intertwined and took a breath deep into his lungs.

"Cas," he said hoarsely. "I'm gonna ask you a favor now, and if you don't want to, you can say no, too."

Castiel nodded.

They were so close now the sunset was sending rays of gold and red through the slit between their bodies; the light reflected off the French doors and illuminated Castiel in burning hues. He was almost too bright to look at, and Dean's eyelids fell to half-mast. He couldn't find the words to ask a question, but his free hand was moving up, up, and falling onto Castiel's face, guiding him closer. Maybe there really wasn't a question Dean wanted to ask after all.

Their lips touched briefly. Sunbeams and waves and hearts all paused in their beating. There was only the kiss.

When the next wave crashed onto the shore, when Dean heard the next pound of his heart in his ears, they were staring at each other in wonder.

"I have to go to work," Dean managed to say.

"Will you come back?" Castiel's voice was thick with want.

Dean nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Desire he could deal with, could understand.

“And then you will tell me all about you and your brother and your job.” Castiel’s fingers danced up Dean’s arm, throwing his thoughts into confusion. He could only nod again, unable to look away from Castiel’s eyes.

“I’ll come back.”

* * *

In some ways Dean wasn’t sure how he even managed to get through his hours. The crew were still filming when he arrived, the wound on his head purpling beautifully. Dean threw on his overalls, grabbed his broom and hid until they were finished. He lost himself in the shadows against the concrete wall, and watched the lights, make-up and costume that magiced actors into the stars their public demanded. Even with all the gloss and the directions to stand and look just so, Dean privately thought they couldn’t hold a candle to Castiel, standing on the beach with the breeze ruffling his sleep tousled hair.

Switching off the lights and hearing the click echo ominously through the cavernous space, Dean let the thought that had been plaguing him finally make itself clear. When he stepped outside the studio gates, would there be a car waiting for him or would there be an empty space like he expected? Castiel wouldn’t want someone like Dean Winchester messing up his neat orderly house and his insane routine. He would have second thoughts about the man he’d kissed. The one he’d had to pick up off the roadside and look after.

Dean lingered in the darkness before shrugging on his coat and hat. He needed to get home.

He turned onto his usual path home, only to be stopped short by a shout. “Mr Winchester!” Dean looked around expecting to see Sam coming out of the gate or something, but instead there was a black car, polished chrome shining in the streetlights, and a worried looking chauffeur standing beside an open door.

Dean hesitated, but he was a man of his word. If Castiel wanted him back, he’d go. He shook the chauffeur’s hand. “Dean. Just- I’m just Dean.”

* * *

Castiel had music playing when Dean wandered into the courtyard. Lights he’d not noticed the day before cast a soft glow over the plants, making shadows dance in the light breeze. Dean followed the music - soft piano - through to the bedroom. Castiel was reading, or at least, he was holding a book in front of him. He mainly seemed to be listening to the music and watching the moon on the water. Few lamps were lit, only one behind Castiel and one by the bedside. Dean felt like he was intruding on the moment, so he stopped, watched and waited.

Castiel let out a sigh then shifted in his chair. His expression was sad, a little lost. Dean knocked at the open door, bringing Castiel’s attention to him. “Hey.”

“Dean-” Castiel’s face shifted from sad through too many emotions to count before settling on a soft half smile. “I didn’t...”

“Yeah. I was late finishing. Then I had Chuck drop me past my place. Thought I’d better grab a clean shirt.” Dean coughed, shifted his feet. “I mean. I didn’t want to be... dirty.” Dean’s confidence deserted him.

“It was warm today,” Castiel observed solemnly.

“It’s always warm,” Dean pointed out, happy for the change in topic.

“Would you-” Castiel stood up, interrupting whatever he had been about to say. Then he started unbuttoning his loose shirt, hands trembling almost imperceptibly. “I’m going to bathe. Would you like to?”

Dean closed the door behind him, crossing the floor to Castiel in as few steps as he could without seeming to be running. He caught Castiel’s hands in his, leaning across the inches between them to place a kiss on Castiel’s mouth. The gentle peck he’d intended deepened when Castiel held tight and kissed back, opening his mouth and letting Dean’s tongue have access, swiping across Castiel’s own tongue. Dean groaned as he pulled back, still holding tight to Castiel’s hands.

“Yes.” Dean noticed the glazed look in Castiel’s eyes, the heat they contained. “Yes.”

“This way.” There was a stutter teetering on the edge of the words, a dim hint at some anxiety behind Castiel’s implacable facade, but his voice held steady once he’d found it.Stepping backward through a side door, Castiel guided him into a tile-lined corridor. Steam filled the air as they walked, and Dean began to realize that Castiel had been waiting for him. He’d filled his bathtub or run his shower and waited.

It would have been presumptuous, would have angered Dean for being thought of as a sure thing. But there was so much hope in Castiel’s eyes mixed with the desire Dean saw there, and Dean couldn’t help but think Castiel must have known the chance he was taking. He must have made a leap of faith, and Dean was flattered to be the one Castiel gambled on.

He was making a hell of a gamble himself, too.

The tub caught his notice, brimming full and glistening, and a bead of sweat trickled down Dean’s brow and stung the corner of his eye. Heat from the day, heat from the tub, and now Dean was struck with the heat of knowledge... he would be in there, with Castiel, nothing between them, nothing but their bodies and steam and water together. Excitement roiled his blood.

His eyes darted up to catch Castiel’s again. The blueness swallowed him and he was gone. He teetered forward, clasped Castiel in his arms and kissed him. Their mouths fit together perfectly, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle snapping into place - the angle hit and everything was just right. Dean’s eyes closed, and he inhaled steam and Castiel’s breath, pushed in ever closer and very nearly sent them toppling into the tub still clothed. Castiel’s mouth was like a whirlpool. Dean just wanted to delve in deeper and deeper. His hands slid down Castiel’s half-unbuttoned shirt, found the remaining buttons and slid them loose one by one. Castiel made a low noise in his throat and shifted his shoulders back, and the shirt fell limp to the floor.

Skin assaulted Dean’s fingers, warm beneath his touch, and Dean flattened his palms against it, groaning into Castiel’s mouth as he mapped each muscle. Castiel’s tongue relaxed, flattened in his mouth, and he gave delirious little sounds as Dean explored, then clasped him close so he could feel the heat of Castiel’s bare chest against his clothed one. The sounds sent honey-sweet bolts of heat down to his toes and up his spine.

It was inevitable that he explored Castiel’s mouth with his own again, Dean tasting the salt of sweat on Castiel’s skin. He licked it away, let his tongue sweep around Castiel’s mouth before trailing soft open mouthed kisses down his neck, sucking the sweat soaked skin into his mouth, biting down gently at the junction of Castiel’s shoulder and licking away the hurt. He could become addicted to the noises Castiel made, the way he tasted. Dean hauled Castiel as close as he could to kiss him again, feeling a wild freedom rising up within him.

Castiel seemed equally eager, parting his lips, luxuriating in every touch of Dean’s mouth. His hands scrabbled at Dean’s shirt and Dean couldn’t deny him any more, pulling his shirt up without undoing the buttons. He’d lost one or two but he could beg a needle and thread in the morning. Right now he had to feel Castiel’s skin against his sweat slicked body. Fever overtook him, as Castiel’s hands searched out the spots that made Dean writhe involuntarily. It was almost a shock to feel Castiel’s hands at his belt and the cooler air against his legs. Dean kicked out of his pants and shoved his underwear to the floor. There was no time to worry about being naked in front of Castiel, who pushed his own slacks to the floor and wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck once more, hard cock a hot line against Dean’s hip.

Dean bore them to the floor, laying Castiel back against the soft towel beside the bathtub. Dean knew he should wait, build up anticipation for what they both wanted. But all the worry and frustrations of the hours at work, clearing up after people happy to ignore him, gnawing over his concerns about Castiel, seemed to be burned away with the pure white heat of want. Desire overrode all his conscious thoughts and Dean let his body pulse against Castiel’s, first sweat and then his own fluids slicking the way. Castiel arched up off the floor, hands pulling Dean close, tight, hard, fingertips brushing against the crease of his ass. Sensation overwhelmed him and Dean cried out, spilling between them. Castiel rode against him hard, lips bruising hard against Dean’s mouth as he sought his own completion.

Their wild rutting ended with them breathing into each other’s mouths, sticky and complete. Dean brought a hand, trembling, up to brush the loose sweat soaked hair from Castiel’s forehead, smiling at the way Castiel ducked free before allowing Dean to pull him close for another kiss, this time gentle and soft.

“Thought about you all night long,” Dean said.

“As did I.” Castiel’s fingers twined through his hair. “Thank you for coming back, Dean. I worried.”

Dean silenced him with a press of lips. “You shouldn’t have,” he murmured. “I told you I’d come back.”

“You are a man of your word.” Castiel sounded vaguely impressed. He trailed his fingers down Dean’s arm. “Good to know.”

“And you...” Dean pressed their bodies together and laughed as they very nearly stuck fast. “You need a bath.”

“I do.” Castiel’s smile was rueful. The lights of the bathroom illuminated his cheeks, and he looked almost like a child.

“Lucky thing,” Dean blustered, “I happen to have one right here.” They both laughed. Dean rose and helped Castiel up with an outstretched hand. They slid into the water together, supporting each other to make sure they didn’t fall. Castiel hooked his legs around Dean’s waist, drawing him forward.

The heat overwhelmed Dean, and he pressed his face to the cool tile at the rim of the tub, panting. “So hot!”

Castiel reached over and held his hand loosely. “You’ll get used to it.”

“My back itches. Oh, God.” Dean wriggled like he’d been electrocuted, but after a moment he abruptly went still. His head tipped back and he closed his eyes. “All right, I’ll admit this is nice.”

“Do you get a sore back?” Castiel asked. “From the work you do?”

Dean nodded and groaned. Even so, the hot water was seeping into the base of his spine, loosening tired muscles and easing the stress on every bone in his back. He was being lifted, buoyed back into place after years of gravity weighing him down into a heap.

And then there was Castiel, too, his hands reaching up around Dean’s neck to knead at Dean’s shoulders. He had rocked forward in the tub, near enough in Dean’s lap, and as his fingers worked the knots from Dean’s muscles he sought out Dean’s mouth in a leisurely kiss. Liquid against his mouth, liquid all around him. Dean was being melted all over.

He wanted to reciprocate, but beneath Castiel’s hands he couldn’t find the strength to raise his own arms. His hands alit on Castiel’s knees instead, and, leaning into the kiss, he ran his palms up the thick columns of Castiel’s thighs.Castiel shivered slightly, smiled and moaned into the kiss. His hands went slack on Dean’s shoulders, and Dean took the opportunity to pull Castiel onto his lap. Winding his arms around Castiel’s waist, kissing his neck, Dean murmured, “Tell me all about you, Cas. Where’d that name come from? Where did you come from?”

Castiel pulled back and Dean let slip a disappointed moan at the loss of his hands.

“Why do you call me Cas?” Castiel’s expression had slipped into unreadable neutrality, a face for the press photographers.

Dean let the water slop around his neck as he lay back, shrugging. “Castiel’s a little long.” That wasn’t entirely it. He wanted something that was him and Castiel’s alone, an intimacy. “I’ve always given people nicknames. People I... People I care about, anyway.” Dean hid his eyes from Castiel at the last, running his hand along the slick white enamel rim of the bath.

Castiel didn’t respond in words. Instead he pushed himself up until he stood in the bathtub, water sluicing down his body. Dean couldn’t stop watching the trails of water, the way Castiel’s skin shone in the soft light. He wanted to taste that skin again, follow the trails of water with his tongue, circle the pink nipples, trace a path from freckle to mole to perfect imperfection that told him Castiel was real and not a perfect cold image on a screen.

A smile crossed Castiel’s face as he stepped out onto the towels, drawing another clean towel around his body. It was as big as some of the blankets Dean owned, or so he reckoned, as Castiel buried his body in its folds.

“I like it.” The words were soft but firm. Castiel met Dean’s startled gaze. “Cas. I like it. My family always insisted on Castiel. My brothers had equally long names. Balthazar. Gabriel. When I was young, I would shorten them. Baltie. Gabe. But I was _reminded_ not to until that affectation was long forgotten.” Discomfort was apparent in Castiel’s recollection. Dean stood, satisfied with the way Castiel watched his body rise from the water like some nymph. He even held out his hand to help Dean step over the high side and down to the tiled floor. Dean didn’t wait for a towel, crowding against Castiel’s body and kissing him deeply.

“Cas. A new name for the start of something new.” Dean smiled at the sudden darkening of Castiel’s eyes. They’d waited long enough.

They kissed again, for another minute, long and wet, tongues stroking each other leisurely. Dean had the feeling he was memorizing Castiel’s mouth, the dark wet corners of it and the sharp jut of his teeth, for those endless seconds when he wouldn’t be able to just reach out and taste it. There was the sense of time sliding inevitably by, even though it was very early on a Saturday morning, with a whole weekend left to explore and discover each other. This too would end. The knowledge burned deep in the back of Dean’s head even as he took his time.

Castiel stepped back, his mouth staying pursed as though yearning for the kiss it had just left. He took Dean’s hand and led him back through the tiled hall into the bedroom. Even in darkness, the white of the sheets and curtains gave the room a sense of unearthly light. In the midst of it, Castiel’s body seemed to glow, droplets of water still clinging to his skin and projecting tiny halos all around him. Castiel backed up to the edge of the bed and held out both hands, palms upward, beckoning.

Dean swallowed hard. He was brutally aware of his own nakedness, of the erection fiercely hot at the core of his body. He almost didn’t belong here, all earth to the light and air that Castiel exuded. Too dirty, too low and solid for this creature. But Castiel’s eyes pleaded with him, and he couldn’t leave them unanswered.

He moved into Castiel’s arms, and when their hips came together, a pair of brackets sliding into alignment, he gave a sharp gasp. Castiel’s lips twitched upward, and he kissed Dean through the smile, the rumble of a low chuckle vibrating into Dean’s mouth. The feeling of it drew a shiver from the base of Dean’s spine. Oh, God, but Castiel was smooth, and strong, and warm. The bathtub’s heat had turned him into a furnace, and Dean wanted nothing more than to stretch his own flushed body against it, to be between the cool sheets and Castiel’s warmth. He groaned, loud, into Castiel’s eager mouth and in a burst of strength turned them both and collapsed down onto the bed, pulling Castiel on top of him.

Surprise widened Castiel’s eyes and he broke into the widest smile Dean had yet seen from him as he found himself atop Dean on the bed. But as quick as it appeared, the smile was gone, and Castiel was on his hands and knees, pressing himself carefully against Dean in the most tantalizing tease-dance Dean had ever witnessed. One moment Castiel was hot and steady above his body, the next he was crawling over him, deigning to nuzzle at Dean’s elbow, the flat of his stomach,. One minute Castiel’s thigh rode between Dean’s, teasing as his balls were hefted against the gentle weight; the next minute, nothing. Dean’s throat was dry. He could barely swallow. Anticipation was roiling every nerve in his body, and he didn’t even know what he was waiting for, besides _more._

He pushed the word out. “More. God, Cas, I need more of you.”

Castiel pressed a hand against his forehead and eased it back into Dean’s damp hair. “Dean,” he said, and there was a promise in the name. Dean closed his eyes and moaned.

The weight of Castiel’s body vanished for a moment before a small jar dropped onto the centre of Dean’s chest. Dean opened one eye to look at it speculatively. Castiel seemed to be waiting for Dean to make a decision again, kneeling up and stripping his own cock slowly. Dean’s mouth watered at the sight of Cas’ cock slipping in and out of the tunnel of his fist. He stretched his legs apart, knowing he looked wanton, needy, and not giving two hoots.

“C’mon, Cas. Show me... Show me what it’s like.” Dean brought his arms up above his head, on display for Castiel. Castiel’s calm composure was wavering, eyes unable to settle anywhere, dancing, caressing, Dean’s body up and down. Dean noted gleefully that Castiel seemed less certain now, trembling slightly. Castiel dipped down to kiss him again, body sweat-slick and damp against him. It was enough to make Dean let loose a low moan. He wasn’t usually vocal in bed, but something here made him want to scream and shout and yell Castiel’s name until it echoed out over the ocean.

Cas took his time then, biting his way down Dean’s neck, rolling a nipple between his lips before finally reaching Dean’s aching cock. When Castiel opened his mouth around his dick, Dean was torn between leaning back and revelling in that hot moist heat and leaning up to see the way Cas’ cheeks hollowed around him. In the end, he had no choice but to arch up and yell, head tossed back on the pillow as Castiel’s long, clever fingers stroked down, down, down and circled slowly around his hole.

Touch upon touch, each small movement of Castiel’s fingers and mouth seemed magnified until they quite overwhelmed Dean. He had nearly lost control of himself, grabbing at the wrought-iron bedstead to hold himself still and to stop him driving into Castiel’s mouth and pushing back against those persistent teasing fingers. Dean groaned, low, animal. He didn’t recognise the sound as coming from himself. It was too much, the sensation, the way every nerve was afire. He didn’t believe he could take any more. That, naturally, was when Castiel chose to breach him.

The feeling was hard to describe. Odd. Strange. New. Tight. Full. Dean wriggled his hips as Castiel moved his hand in concert with his still bobbing head. The brush of fingertips inside his most intimate of place made Dean near blush to think of what was happening but the way he lit up with pleasure at the stretch and the pull made him desperate to feel more. To take more. Castiel seemed to understand Dean’s bitten off cries, slipping another finger in. Dean was surprised at the intensity of the slow burn that usually signalled his orgasm. 

“Cas- Stop. Cas.” He couldn’t seem to string the words together more skilfully than that. Immediately, Castiel withdrew, sitting up and looking at Dean in concern. “No, no.” Dean had to steady his breathing, close his eyes and retrain his thoughts. “I want you. I want to come with you...” Dean was too embarrassed to outright beg for it still.

“You want me in you, Dean? You want me to fuck you.” The coarse words in Cas’ gravelling tones made Dean’s hips jerk, electricity running down his spine. “Is that what you want?”

Dean smashed his mouth against Cas’, tasting the salt of himself on Castiel’s lips. It made him groan, writhe upwards to find some contact, some pressure. Castiel held back though. “Ask me, Dean.”

“Yes, yes. I want you to...” Dean had to take a shuddering breath. “Fuck me, Cas.” It was quieter than he’d probably be happy to admit. Softer. Dean felt a pressure in his chest and the words spilled out almost unbidden. “Make love to me.”

Castiel kissed him again, pressing until Dean was back against the sheets. A careful hand cupped his jaw, stroked down his rapidly rising and falling chest and came to lift Dean’s leg up. Dean hooked his foot over Cas’ hip and waited, patiently, for Castiel to slick up his own cock. He was trembling, simultaneously terrified and elated. It only got worse when Castiel readied himself, steering his cock towards Dean. It was impossible to look away, to shut his eyes and focus fully on the sensation, when Castiel’s eyes seemed to be boring into him, seeing all the way through the bullshit and the persona and the obfuscation Dean was prone to. Dean felt like Castiel was stripping every layer from him, looking deeper than anyone ever had as his cock pushed slowly, carefully, into Dean.

If he’d thought the strain and push of Castiel’s finger was intense, he had known nothing about what it would be like afterward. Dean arched up, grabbed Castiel by the shoulders and pulled him down even as his body struggled to hold in the tremendous pressure inside him. Undoubtedly good, but powerful, too, so much of a new experience that he wasn’t sure he could handle it all. His body rebelled, and he tipped his head back, trying to breathe, trying to learn to manage all the things this one breach was making him feel. Panting and taking in shallow gulps of air, he held fast to Castiel, staring at the ceiling, praying for the strength to bear it.

But when his breathing got deeper, when he tried to relax and accept, the burn turned into something amazing, something he wanted more of. His lips sought out Castiel’s, and he gave himself to the weight above him, relaxing under the push and crush of Castiel’s body. He could hear himself whisper, then hear his whisper rise to voice -- “Oh, God, Cas. It’s-- it’s so _much_ , it’s so _strong._ ” Words that belonged in the mouth of a ravished damsel, not him, not Dean Winchester, the piss-and-vinegar janitor who lived in the shadows of a studio, but he couldn’t help himself. Not when he was being taken apart like this, and God, he needed Castiel to _move_ \--

The shift was sudden, the pressure unbearable, and then relieved, and then back again. Castiel watched, gauging each expression on Dean’s face, and Dean didn’t have a clue what his face was doing because _this_ was what it felt like when Castiel moved and Dean couldn’t stand it and didn’t want it to ever stop. “Fuck,” he hissed, his body trembling with each thrust. “ _Fuck_ , I can’t--” And when Castiel stopped, Dean seized up and urged him on. “Damn it, Cas, don’t _stop._ ”

Castiel’s eyes widened at the growl in his voice, and then he rocked forward with a throaty noise of his own. His lips met Dean’s and they made wild, untamed sounds into each other’s mouths, moved together on the big white bed, nightfall all around them hushed and listening to the noises rising up from creaking mattresses and hurried breaths. The moving made it bearable, and Castiel’s skin pink and glowing from the bath made it beautiful - not a word that Dean tended to abuse, but there was no other word for Cas, his face taut with passion, his body firm and eclipsing everything else in the room as he rocked forward into Dean. Dean’s eyes kept slipping shut, his senses overwhelmed by the delicious burn of Castiel sliding into him, but when he opened them, Castiel’s skin was all he could see.

He gave up seeing altogether when Castiel found the leverage to reach forward and gently stroke Dean’s cock with his fingertips. Flames raced through his insides, and he groaned and threw his head back, body arching impossibly under Castiel’s weight. Castiel answered the push with a groan of his own, and now the shifts were coming faster, the thrusts harder, the two of them racing toward an inevitable peak. It barely took another set of tentative strokes for Dean to come, muscles locking up entirely as his whole body seemed to pitch itself off the bed. He could feel himself hanging in midair for seconds before Castiel pushed him back down with a loud, tortured sound and thrust in deep as his own orgasm wracked him. They trembled, gasped and shouted, and they finally came crushing together, bodies sticky with sweat, kissing and holding tight and eventually breaking into shaky laughter.

* * *

The morning was well advanced by the time either of them surfaced. It was still a little too early for Dean to be up and about but he didn’t want to waste more time in unconscious sleep. Dean was aware, dimly, that during the night he’d made adjustment for another body in the bed. And those adjustments weren’t the rearrangement of blankets and the shoving of limbs that had been common when he’d been forced to sleep head to toe with Sam as a kid. Not in the slightest. These movements were more to accommodate Cas’ head on his chest, an arm wrapped around him, a thigh between knees. Blankets and sheets were wrapped tight, as if neither of them wanted to risk the other escaping and pillows were shared, not greedily hoarded. Dean woke to fingers carding through his hair, teasing the stubborn locks into spikes and waves that would grace the most frightening of movie villains.

“Mornin’,” Dean muttered. He ached. His lower back was particularly noticeable, a throb that wasn’t so much a pain as a pleasant reminder of what they had done. It was nice that it was less transitory than he’d expected. Castiel’s scruff of stubble had left patches of burn, a scrape that was as much a mark of possession as anything painful. Underneath these minor and enjoyable souvenirs, Dean was surprised to feel a lightness. It made him want to lie in bed, entangled, and kiss and talk about the weather and baseball. Dean let his arms tighten around Castiel’s hips as he tried to identify exactly what it was. The rumble of Cas’ stomach interrupted both his plans and his train of thought. “Hungry?”

Castiel arched an eyebrow and Dean clarified, “For food.”

Another teasing brush of fingertips. “Yes. I’m hungry.” Castiel sounded like he had the same lightness under his skin, bubbling up into his words. Effervescence. The fizz of the finest champagne. 

Happiness.

Dean dropped a kiss, a wet suck of his mouth, onto the nearest spur of hip, tasting sweat and salt and _Castiel_. He might be satisfied with feasting there. Instead he rolled off the bed, pulling sheets with him and laughed as Castiel pouted. “I’m cold.”

“I heard about this amazing invention that helps with that.” Dean couldn’t contain his glee. “Clothes.”

Castiel’s eyes darkened as they swept up and down Dean’s body. “Overrated,” Cas rasped out. He was debauched, lying back against the white sheets, completely comfortable in his nudity, hair rumpled, yes, by sleep, but also by the way Dean had grabbed and pulled and buried his hands in it as they both found satisfaction. Another chuckle burbled up inside him and Dean let it out, ignoring the mock outrage on Cas’ face. He turned for the bathroom, only to be stopped by the stealthy wrapping of arms around his waist, holding him close against Castiel’s chest. “I normally swim,” Cas suggested, hands splayed wide to cover as much of Dean as he could.

Dean nodded. The memory of Castiel wet and glistening needed refreshing after all. “Got a suit for me?”

* * *

The ocean wasn’t blue. In all Dean’s remembrance of Sam’s experiments in crayon art, the ocean had always been blue. This sea was green and white and grey and the colour of Castiel’s eyes. It was something that had surprised him when they first came out to California, and maybe they had just been at the wrong beaches, but this beach was the same as all the others. The waves rolled high and the spray landed on Dean’s lips, making him lick them and shiver a little, even in the bright morning. 

He wasn’t sure how to take the ocean when he first laid eyes on it. Coming from Kansas, where fields lay out in every direction, he shouldn’t have been scared of an open horizon. But at least in Kansas he could run or bicycle or once in a million years even take a car and drive to the end of it, until at last there might be a tree or a farmhouse or even the edge of a city. Not so the ocean. You can’t reach the end of it, Dean thought with some panic as he followed Castiel down to the edge of the waves. You could get ripped away from shore in the current and there would be nobody there, no one around for miles and miles, no solid ground and no people, not even any air, just deep green-grey that faded into black if you sank far enough from the sun.

But Castiel strode in confident, comfortable, even as the gooseflesh ripped up his skin at the first touch of the waves against his toes. His arms widened, as though he could embrace the earth, and he kept moving along the murky bottom (stepping on shells and rocks and God knows what else, Dean thought) until he was in chest-deep. Then he turned back, and the sun touched his hair with a rim of gold as he smiled. “Come on,” he said. 

Dean hesitated. The water looked more than anything like some kind of evil, gaping mouth that might swallow him whole. The waves bared toothy grins of white foam. But Castiel stood comfortable within it and Dean wanted to join him more than anything in the world. He took a step, bit back a gulp at the shock of cold, and stepped forward.

The sand stayed smooth under his feet, with an occasional brush of slimy seaweed, but rocks didn’t crop up unexpectedly to bite him, and he wasn’t being crawled all over by tiny, invisible creatures that he imagined might lurk on the floor. It was halfway his pride that drove him forward -- he was a man who cleaned up the gory aftermath of fight scenes and the vomit from drunken starlets who came to set unable to work. Something so simple and natural as a clamshell or a hermit crab shouldn’t give him pause. But nonetheless, he was digging his hands into his palms to keep from a shudder of anxiety as the water bobbed up, shockingly cold, around his hips and to the bare skin of his waist.

Then a wave swelled and burst in his face, and he was freezing and shivering and crying out, spitting salt water from his mouth. “Damn it, cold!”

Castiel’s laugh sounded gentle and low a few yards away,and then abruptly he was swept up by wet arms, a cold chest pushed against his. He shivered further, but Castiel was holding him tight and he couldn’t push away, only raise his hands to clasp him closer. And, all right, this _was_ warmer, now that Castiel’s body heat was seeping into his skin. Warmer and smoother, their bodies lubricated by the sea water, sliding together effortlessly.

“Dunk in up to your shoulders,” Castiel murmured in his ear. “It will warm you up.”

“I’d rather not,” Dean started, but then Castiel was pulling him down, and the water closed around him with startling speed. A shock of cold zipped through his system. A moment later, he was blinking in surprise as the feeling vanished. He was warm and enveloped by water now, Castiel still holding him up, keeping his head from going under. He laughed, leaned in, rested his head against Castiel’s and tried to calm the racing of his heart.

“Better?” Castiel said. Dean nodded. Castiel himself had no problem dunking; his hair and face were wet, and Dean found the coolness of his damp cheeks somehow calming. For a while they floated together, tangled in each other’s arms, bobbing at the surface and letting their legs hang low to brush the sandy floor.

Their lips found each other naturally, drifting together. The kiss lingered. Dean sighed into the salty warmth of Castiel’s mouth.

“You aren’t used to the ocean,” Castiel said. Dripping fingers teased at the back of Dean’s neck, near his hairline.

“You are,” Dean answered.

“I grew up with it,” Castiel said. “My father was a fisherman. When we weren’t going out in his boat and helping him haul in a net full of fish, we were playing on the beach, watching the boats go in and out from the harbor.”

“You and your brothers.” Dean remembered Castiel mentioning them. “Older? Younger?”

“All older.” Castiel smiled and squinted up at the sun. “I was the precious little baby boy. The one who reminded them all of my mother, and the only one who didn’t remember her.”

Dean bit his lip. “Yeah, well. It was just me, my dad and Sammy growing up too. But I was the big brother. There was a fire.”

Castiel brought his mouth to Dean’s ear. “Well, you’re certainly big in the right places...”

The innuendo broke the tension of the memories. “I bet you got away with everything, man.”

“I was a little angel, I’ll have you know.” Castiel tried to loosen his grip on Dean but Dean clung tight, hands locked in placed around Cas’ back. The teasing note dropped from his voice. “I always did what they expected of me until... Let’s leave it as until my father died.”

Dean used his grip to pull Castiel close to him again, a true embrace. “How did he die?”

“He went out in the boat and never came back.” Castiel was matter of fact about it, blunt to the point of uncaring but Dean could sense the edge of a hurt that would never heal under it all.

“Sam and my dad fought like hellhounds on a regular basis. I was the peacemaker and the one who cleaned up afterwards..” Dean laughed. “Still doing that, I guess. At least I get paid for it now.”

Castiel hummed in agreement. 

They drifted together some more, Dean becoming more confident in kicking at the ocean floor to keep them moving and afloat. They didn’t need words, just lips and touch and the way their eyes met to say things Dean would never dare say out loud. It was as if he’d stepped outside of himself, his own sphere of influence and been pulled into another world, Castiel’s world. A place that was not part of reality, a science fiction world in a bubble, where they were the only inhabitants.

Castiel pulled Dean up the beach and he shivered when the air hit his wet skin. Castiel’s hands were there immediately, drawing a towel around Dean’s body, the touch of cloth sending shockwaves through him. Hands tucked themselves under the towel, plucked at Dean’s nipples, stroking smooth palms over goosebumps and pushing off the wet shorts. Dean was naked, exposed and willing. He tackled Castiel down onto the sand, laughing when he had the man pinned. Castiel laughing back was the best sound and it filled Dean’s head. He kissed along Castiel’s neck in order to keep the laughter going, tasting salt and sweat and skin. Then the laughter turned to groans.

Dean pulled away reluctantly. Romantic notions of doing more than rolling against Castiel, whose skin still glistened with droplets of water, fucking against him in the sand warred with more practical considerations. Dean really didn’t want sand getting everywhere. Castiel seemed to read his thoughts, smiling wildly, so hard his cheeks might hurt. He scrabbled to his feet before towing Dean to the deck. A shower head tucked under the steps offered a way to rinse their bodies of sand and brine, although neither of them could wait for their turn. Jockeying for the spray resulted in Dean pulling Castiel’s suit down and off and using it to cushion his knees as he drank in salt off Castiel’s hips, his cock. It was only Castiel pulling him up forcibly that stopped Dean drinking all Castiel would offer him. Dean loved the way the soft skin sat on his tongue, the stretch of his mouth. 

“Your lips...” Castiel ground out before using his own to seal up Dean’s mouth. Dean fumbled a hand out to turn off the water, unsurprised to find Castiel’s hand already there, turning the wheel with economical movements. Still soaking wet, Castiel chased Dean into the house, through the doors to his bedroom and onto the bed. Dean turned the tables, pinioned Cas back against the sheets and resumed his quest to taste each part of Castiel’s body. 

* * *

It wasn’t enough. No amount of touching and tasting could satisfy their hunger for each other. Dean felt as though someone had turned a screw inside him and all of the desire and optimism and appreciation for life he hadn’t felt in so long had been set free. In Castiel’s arms he was a kid again, fascinated by every movement of Cas’ face, the mysterious depth in his eyes, his voice and body. The weight of the world was off his shoulders for two days of play, of learning, and of falling into something that he didn’t recognize but might very well be love.

But Monday morning at three a.m., James Novak had a call to begin shooting a new film, and that meant that Sunday evening, Dean had to take his leave. Chuck stood patiently by the car, facing the other direction, as Castiel held both of Dean’s hands and stared at him as though he might never get the chance again.

“I’ll call for you again,” he said soberly. Dean no longer had to wonder whether he was wanted. It was there, blazing, on Castiel’s face every moment. What they had built was far more than a single weekend could sustain.

“You better,” Dean said, grinning. Even though they were parting, even though his skin ached for Castiel’s still, he couldn’t help but be optimistic. “Maybe next weekend?”

“Maybe before,” Castiel said hurriedly, and then averted his eyes. 

Dean laughed and leaned over to brush lips against his cheek. “Sounds good.”

They lingered another moment in the brightening sunset and kissed longingly before they parted. Chuck, good man that he was, didn’t sneak a peek, at least not so far as Dean could tell. But he had a secret smile on his face when he opened the car door for Dean, a smile that hinted at him having an idea just what was going on. He didn’t mention anything, though, nodding pleasantly when Dean reminded him to go left or right in the crowded, narrow streets. People on the sidewalk stopped and stared at the lush automobile going by in a part of the city not known for the wealth of its occupants. Dean felt a bit like a celebrity himself. And why not? He’d had a weekend full of Castiel, and it was harder to imagine a luckier sop on the front page of all the papers. And soon he’d have more.

Was there any end to his luck?

The answer came as he locked the door behind him, looked at his tiny apartment and breathed a sigh of relief and happiness. His plan was to flop unashamedly onto his bed and spend the night reliving the weekend in excruciating detail. The memories would be sustaining him for as long as it took to see Castiel again, and he couldn’t wait to dive into them.

But it wasn’t to happen. A hiss sounded in the dimness. Dean stiffened. He wasn’t alone here.

He inched along the wall, going for the kitchen, his eye on the block of knives he barely used for cooking. They’d be of better use defending himself against an attacker. The hiss came again, and this time it had a word attached to it. “Dean!”

“Who’s there?” Dean lunged for the counter, got his hand on the knife block before the answer came.

“It’s me. It’s Sam!”

A light switched on. Under the glow of the naked bulb Sam looked skinny, emaciated. His eyes kept darting to the door and window, as though worrying someone might burst through any moment. Dean’s hand moved away from the knife block, and he backed up..

“Dean.” Sam moved toward him, not raising his voice above a whisper. “You’ve got to help me!”


	2. Moonshine Lullaby

Dean fumbled open the packet of cigarettes on the table and lit one, trying to explain away the shaking in his hand as adrenaline, the remains of shock at finding Sam - fucking Sam - here of all places. Sam frankly looked terrible. His hair was lank and his clothes had definitely seen better days. For all of Sam’s debauchery that last time Dean had seen him, he had never managed to look this bad. A bruise was flourishing high on his cheekbone. Dean leaned forward, taking hold of Sam’s chin in a none too gentle grip and turning him from side to side to check for more. There was blood on his collar.

The last time Dean had someone’s chin in his grip like this, he’d been going to kiss them. Then the grip had been much more gentle, more of a persuasive caress, and Castiel had come willingly. Sam struggled, whined, and rubbed at his face when Dean let him go.

They still hadn’t spoken much beyond the initial exchange. Dean had dragged back the chair opposite Sam and sunk into it, wondering if he was hallucinating. Maybe he’d been hallucinating since he fell. That would explain Castiel... Dean choked a little on the cigarette and ran his hand over his thigh, feeling the ache of fading bruises. No. He had to trust his own body. He had to trust Cas.

“So,” Dean finally asked. “What’s up, Sam?”

Sam looked at him. His throat worked and his mouth opened but no actual words came out. Dean didn’t remove his gaze, puffing his way through first one cigarette and then another. He shifted on the hard seat, occasionally catching the edge of an ache and remembered Castiel. He buried the memory deep inside his head. Dean kept his eyes blank and his face impassive. Sam’s poker face could have used a little work though. He fidgeted, twitched and worked his hands in ever increasing knots. 

Dean was reaching for his third consecutive cigarette when Sam slapped his hand on the table. “There’s this girl.”

Dean sat back, keeping his face still and drawing the next fresh breath of cigarette smoke into his lungs. “Yeah. And?”

“No, no. I was gonna marry her.” Sam looked lost for a moment, all hard-edged and false sophistication vanishing in an instant. “I loved her.” Dean spun his finger in the air to suggest that Sam maybe wanted to hurry it up. He had a bed to get to, after all. A bed to get to and memories to relive.

Sam dragged his hands through his hair. “She’s dead.”

* * *

Dean fetched the whiskey before Sam continued. The tumblers weren’t the cut crystal Castiel had brought him fruit juice in, but they were clean enough and the whiskey was the finest Mexican import Dean was able to afford. It burned less after the third sip. Or so. He poured a healthy tot for himself and had to refill Sam’s glass almost immediately. Baby brother, who once turned his nose up at the offer of a beer when it was still legal, had learned the skill of opening the throat and letting the liquid flow straight down. Dean stifled a smile with his own glass when Sam went into an extended coughing fit. It was the only thing he had to smile about for a while.

“Start from the beginning,” he said, trying to sound comforting, but his voice was strained with mistrust and caution. Sam’s eyes caught his, wavered uncertainly, and then dropped again. His fingers curled around his tumbler, trembling, like they might seize up any minute and crush the glass.

“Her name’s... her name _was..._ Ruby,” he said slowly. “We met at a premiere party. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and she knew it. She reeled me in like a fish on a hook. I was lost before I even said hello.” He shook his head, tried to smile, but the weariness hung on his face like a weight. “She was a mystery to me the whole time we were dating. I didn’t know what she did with her time. She would disappear for days, and I never heard about her family or her other friends, but it didn’t matter to me because she was so...” He looked at Dean earnestly. “Bewitching.”

Bewitching didn’t sound good at all, but Dean kept his lips tightly sealed. Sam didn’t need to hear that now, even if he probably could have used a good smack earlier on to keep him from getting in this mess. Now it was too late, and Sam was in over his head. As much of a pain as he could be, he was still Sam, and Dean remembered hauling him down from the tree in the front yard one day after he climbed too high and clung to the branch, wailing, like a terrified cat. Sam was still climbing too high, it looked like, and like it or not it was up to Dean to help him out.

“We had a place, a little bungalow down by the beach, south...” Sam hooked his thumb in a direction, then gave up on the gesture. “I started noticing these men, lurking around. I thought they were neighbors. But they were always outside, never said hello. Then one day I came home and Ruby was out talking to them. She said they had asked directions. But they were there all the time. Still, I just never put two and two together.”

Dean was starting to have a sinking feeling that this was going to a nightmarish place. He kept holding his tongue. His night had gone, in a few minutes, from blissful to terrifying. He reached for another cigarette.

“A few nights later I saw her talking to them again, and she swore it was nothing. But a week later...” Sam’s voice shook. He reached down, clutched the chair, fingers straining on the wood like he could crush it. “She was scared, she said I should leave, said she didn’t love me. I said no, of course not - I couldn’t leave her - and the next time I left her alone...”

His eyes filled with tears. “Dean, you don’t even know. What they did--”

Dean moved forward, put a hand on his brother’s shaking shoulder. Sam shuddered and pulled himself together.

“It was about me,” he said slowly. “Ruby was... I mean, she was perfect. It had to be about me, about my fame, and my money. It’s... it’s my fault she, and now...” His hand curved into a tight fist and he pounded the table, making the glasses jump and the bottle near topple. Dean grabbed at it and looked at his brother more closely.

When Sam was a kid - six or seven, Dean thought - he’d come skipping along the dusty road that led to their house and practically leaped into Dean’s arms. There was a new girl in his class and she had blonde curls and she’d smiled at Sam. She was taller than him but it didn’t matter. Dean had met her and her father in town a few days later, when he and Sam had been wasting time waiting for their father. She was all legs and teeth but blushed adorably when she’d seen Sam. Sam had smiled, looking up from underneath his bangs. That had been the first time he’d met Jessica Moore but she’d become something of a fixture over the years, friend, study buddy and eventual girlfriend to Sam. Sam always looked at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real. When she’d died, it was as if a part of Sam had gone with her.

He had ached for Sam, for his empty eyes and the way he seemed to turn to speak to the girl who’d been almost as big a part of his life as Dean. And somewhere Dean still felt that old ache, that urge to try and make everything better for his baby brother. Dean watched Sam talk about this girl, this Ruby. The man sprawled in his kitchen, bruises blossoming on his face, tie loose around his neck and shoulders so big they needed their own zip code was nothing like the skinny boy Dean knew. There was a terrible anger in him, a fury that seemed to burn the grief out of him. The tears were real, no doubt, but so was Sam’s urge to hurt someone, to avenge.

“It’s not like you would understand-” Sam started. Dean felt anger fill his veins, a cold creeping ice. He didn’t want to pound the table. He wanted, needed, Sam to stop talking. “You’ve never felt-”

“I have.” Dean knew the ice was in his voice. He had. His brother didn’t know everything and, despite the loosening effect of the alcohol, Dean didn’t feel like sharing. A sudden thought. If anything had happened to Cas... The lurch in his stomach, the swirl of nausea and Dean knew he was probably close to feeling it again.

He got out of his chair, headed to the window. The kitchen looked out onto the blank brick wall of the building opposite, but it was better than looking at Sam. “It’s not like you know me anymore.”

Dean heard the chair scrape back but Sam didn’t come closer. “I’ll be seeing you then.” Sam was almost at the door before Dean turned around.

“Why did you come here? To me?” He watched Sam’s face closely. “Why didn’t you go to any of your fancy friends?”

Sam let out a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. The derisive snort was utterly devoid of any humor. “They’re not friends. And they sure as hell ain’t family either, Dean. You’re the only one I can trust.”

Dean felt a guilty start at that. He wasn’t exactly being completely honest with his brother himself. He didn’t dare, for example, loosen the collar of his shirt because he knew there were marks sucked into his skin he didn’t want to talk about. Sam watched him, one hand on the doorknob. Finally Dean nodded.

“Stay. You’re taking the couch though.” He opened the hall closet and drew out a spare blanket. It was old, one that had travelled all the way from Kansas with them. Sam’s face blanked as he caught it. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Dean made sure his bedroom door was closed firmly before he started drawing off his clothes. Castiel had helped him do that last, and helped him into them before kissing Dean goodbye. Dean had to stop and sit on the bed. His hands were trembling so hard he couldn’t finish the finicky buttons. What had this Ruby girl been caught up in? What had Sam got himself into? What would Castiel say?

Thinking of Castiel made Dean smile. He closed his eyes and lay back, tracing his hands over the path that Cas’ mouth had taken. Dean pressed down into the marks on his collarbone that Cas’s teeth had left and he felt his cock stir. God, how much he wanted to let himself drift off into that place he’d been longing for ever since he and Castiel parted ways. To just lie here, remembering a weekend full of incredible feeling, taking himself in hand and stroking until there was nothing left but bliss flowing through his veins, until his body was riding the crest of a wave and all he could do was arch up and let it peak. 

He wanted to, but Sam was in the next room and every time Dean stroked, every time his hand slid up the smooth shaft of his cock and pleasure clutched him, anxiety did too, in a knot that made him seize up and shudder. And not in the good way.

In the end, he lay on his side and forced his eyes to close, though all he wanted was to keep them open, stare at the walls to make sure they still stayed still and fixed. So much had changed in the past day, it felt as though they might too melt before long. He breathed deep and steadied himself. He’d always been the strong one, the one who could get through anything, take any amount of crap that was thrown at him. This would be no exception. “You’ll get through this,” he mumbled, and fell asleep with the words echoing in his head.

* * *

Morning, and the murmuring in his ear had to be Castiel, his lips pressing against Dean’s neck and the soft rake of his hands through Dean’s hair. Here he was again, waking in Cas’ arms, and all he wanted was to just roll over and take the man, embrace the heat and the magic of him that made Dean want to spend all day right here.

He rolled over, and the empty air that hit him was the first clue.

The murmuring was the hissing of his sink in the other room, and Dean stumbled wearily through the doorway, greeting Sam with a noncommittal groan. Sam was washing his hands in the sink near the window, and when he turned to greet Dean, he looked more like a raccoon than a human being. He hadn’t slept, and if the empty bottle of whiskey was any indication, he’d tried like hell to knock himself out by any means necessary. Dean’s stomach recoiled. It had been that bad a night for Sam? He felt guilty at having slept at all himself.

“You look like hell,” he said, by way of a greeting. Sam nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Dean moved forward into the small room. He didn’t know whether to ask Sam what he planned next, or whether to wait for Sam to decide to speak. He did know that having Sam under his roof was nerve-wracking, to put it mildly, and also that he could feel himself wanting to like it. It was a throwback to the old days, when it was just the two of them against the world, when if Sam had found tragedy Dean would have put his arms around his baby brother and protected him from the whole world.

Now, of course, that baby brother stood a full head taller than he did, and there were a million others to embrace him and tell him everything would be all right. And still he’d come to Dean. Dean was the only one he could trust, Sam had said. But Dean couldn’t say the feeling ran both ways. He didn’t know if Sam was even telling him the whole truth. Something had happened, something that had shaken Sam to the core. But he didn’t put it past his brother to find a story that sounded a bit better than the truth. Sam, as any actor, had a flair for the dramatic.

“I-- I’m shooting at Paramount today,” Sam said. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel and sat at the table. 

“Yeah?” Dean regarded him. “You’re not going to take a day off?”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t.” 

Dean bit back “What the hell do you want me to do about it?” and watched Sam evenly. Sam tapped his fingers, either in nerves or impatience. The silence stretched between them and Dean felt it like the distance that had grown up between them. The day when he’d known everything about Sam, been the first to see and hear, to know when something was wrong was long gone.

“I want you to come with me,” Sam finally said.

“I have work. Tonight.” Dean dismissed the idea of accompanying Sam to work like some kind of bodyguard out of hand. He found the whole idea more amusing than anything. His brother was so damn big that the idea he needed someone to traipse after him was more stupid than anything but then Sam turned begging eyes on him. 

“Just until I’m on set? I can come with you later.” Sam was leaning forward over the table now, as earnest as he had been when explaining the latest book he’d read for school or the newest morsel of gossip about the town. “It would make me feel safe, Dean. Like I used to.”

Dean knew he should resist but he found himself nodding before scrubbing his hand over his face. “Just let me shave.”

* * *

Naturally, Dean thought later, Sam coming back into his life was when the wheels started coming off. If he was being more honest with himself, he probably saw it coming for a long time. His weekend with Castiel was nothing more than a daydream. Something to remind him that Dean Winchester didn’t deserve happiness. Dean had trailed after Sam into the studio, trying to look dangerous. He’d traded out his usual newsboy cap for a fedora and slung on a vest and coat. He was sweating heavily but knew he looked decent. He’d tightened his tie all the way up to hide the marks on his neck. It was still something he wanted to keep to himself, no questions to be asked.

He was so caught up in trying to look nonchalant and like he belonged that he had followed Sam all the way to his chair without noticing who was seated in the chair beside him. His first thought was that the man’s hair had been combed to look like Castiel’s. Then his eyes fell to the name printed on the back of the seat. James Novak. Dean froze.

Hot and cold blew through his veins in turn. Castiel was there. Right in front of him, and Dean could reach out and touch him. See his face, a reminder of the short time things had actually gone right in his life. Maybe Castiel would smile, welcome him as a friend. Maybe they could find a way to sneak soft kisses in hidden places before he was called back to set. Maybe Dean could spend the free time before his shift started in a bliss-addled haze that would more than make up for the bad dream that had been the past night. Maybe.

Or maybe Castiel would look at him as a stranger would, and they’d have to pretend. And then Sam would be making introductions. and then Castiel would make the connection between Dean and Sam, and Sam might ask questions, and Dean’s hell and his paradise would fold in on each other. It was too much for him to comprehend. He backed away, slowly at first, and then turned to high-tail it toward the studio entrance. As much as he ached for Castiel, he couldn’t bring those two worlds together, not yet. 

He heard the words “Hey, Dean!” far behind him. It took all his willpower not to look back and meet Sam’s eyes -- but he knew whose eyes had likely turned in that direction, too, and once that contact was made, there’d be no turning back. As it was, it was only a matter of time before Castiel put two Winchesters together. He kept moving.

A moment later he had Sam beside him again. His cheeks were red, and he was winded -- Dean imagined he’d probably loped like a clumsy cat across the studio floor to catch up. “Why are you running away?” 

“You’re on set now,” Dean said. “You said you didn’t need me. I’m going home.”

“Oh, but come on.” The earnest lilt to Sam’s voice grated on Dean’s ears. “I’ll introduce you to some movie stars. Stick around awhile.”

 _Yeah, I’ll just bet you will,_ Dean thought. “Not interested.”

“Why are you leaving me?” Damn it, Sam knew how to turn on the neediness like a switch.

Dean scowled. “I don’t belong here, Sam. I don’t want to pal around with movie stars. You said I could leave you once you got here, so let me go. I’ve got things to do.” He couldn’t think of one, but if pressed, he was sure he could make one up.

“Dean.” Sam grabbed him by the shoulders. “Come on. Nobody else here knows what I’ve been through. Please, just stay. For a while. I promise I won’t ever ask again.”

Damn Sam to the seventh level of hell. He had to know Dean couldn’t say no to that. “Fine,” he muttered after a bit of hemming and hawing and avoiding Sam’s gaze. “But I’m staying out of the way. You need to talk to me, we meet out here, not in there. And I don’t want to meet any damn movie stars.”

“Sure, sure.” Sam’s hands withdrew, and he held his palms up, fingers widespread, in a gesture of surrender. “Whatever you want. Thank you, Dean.” For an instant, the old Sam surfaced -- shining eyes, thankful grin. Then he was walking back into the room in big strides, the picture of power and stardom again, and Dean looked away, thoroughly disgusted with himself for his lack of willpower.

Dean tried sticking to the shadows. He hung back with the lighting crew, thinking he’d be unnoticed and unnoticeable. Instead Castiel seemed to turn immediately in his direction. A frown crossed his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Dean ran his hand across his mouth, panicking. Stealth had never been his strong suit. He couldn’t make it across the floor and was grateful when someone took Castiel’s attention and focused him on the scene in front. Dean leaned back against the wall and drank his fill, feeling guilty.

There were what seemed like hundreds of people floating around. Megaphones were gripped in dozens of hands, people clattered past with equipment that had too many dials and knobs for Dean’s comfort. He stayed as far back as he could, losing himself in the crowd. He never managed to lose Cas though. It was hard to. Castiel was standing, dressed in a dapper tuxedo, waiting for someone to fix his hair. Sam wasn’t too far over, bending down to listen to a short man’s instructions. A woman in an altogether too sparkly dress stood between them, eyes on the floor. The set cleared, the clapper board was waved in front of the camera and Dean cupped a cigarette in his hands as Castiel turned to the woman and took her in his arms. Cas swayed with her, eyes fixed on hers and Dean felt a surge of jealousy rise up in him. He still wore Castiel’s bruises on his body but this man in front of him was no longer Castiel. This was Jimmy Novak, movie star, and the man who millions fell in love with.

Dean was glad when Sam cut in, acting haughty and possessive. Castiel stepped back to the edge of the frame and looked- he looked like his heart was breaking. The camera rolled on relentless as Dean dug his fingernails into his palm. He wanted to be there, wrap his arms around Castiel, sway with him and make him forget the world. Then the director called cut and the sad expression slowly faded from Cas’ face. Dean let the smoke drift upwards unheeded, as they reset back to one.

* * *

There were only a couple of more takes before they were ready to move on again. By this point, the heat had built up in the studio and Dean had to run his finger around the neck of his shirt to loosen it. He debated opening his top button but thought the better of it. He reluctantly dragged his eyes off Castiel to watch Sam. Sam was in his element here: laughing with the girls that flocked around him to fix his hair, his costume; nodding thoughtfully at the people giving him instructions; throwing wild grins at the unimpressed guys behind the machines. If Dean didn’t know Sam as well as he did, he probably would have been taken in by it too. Instead Dean knew Sam was laughing too loud, looking around too often. His hands frequently made fists at his sides, betraying the tension within.

A break was called after a few more shots and people drifted to the side while the set was adjusted. Sam sat back in his chair, legs out to the side like a stork. He looked around, a little desperate, until he spotted Dean. The inevitable beckon made Dean close his eyes in resigned panic before he nodded. It was time to face the music.

“Hey, Sam.” He kept his voice soft, trying not to seek out Castiel’s eyes, trying not to look for the reaction he wanted.

“I know you said you didn’t want to meet any movie stars, but you have to say hi to Novak.” Sam turned in his seat to gesture at Cas, who was staring a little open-mouthed at Dean. A dozen expressions flitted through his eyes but the rest of his face was immobile. He stretched out a hand.

“Hello. I’m James Novak.”

“Dean Winchester.” Dean said it with a wince as he shook Castiel’s hand, pressing a little too tight for comfort.

“Winchester, huh. So this is the brother?” Castiel’s eyes bored into Dean, and Dean had the feeling he was really asking the question of Sam, not him. 

He faked a short laugh. “What, has he talked about me?”

“Nonstop.” Castiel oozed charm like this, but it was Novak’s charm, finely tuned and practiced. In a way , it was easy to pretend, as long as he was like this. This man bore no resemblance to the still-waters-run-deep beauty that had been Castiel, in his quiet hideaway near the ocean. Perhaps he knew this, and was putting up the facade for Dean’s benefit. That would be all right. 

“Well, don’t believe a word of it,” he said, and, for Sam’s benefit, “I can’t believe it’s you in person. It’s an honor, sir.” At the corner of his vision he could see Sam smirking, self-satisfied. What a magnanimous person he was, to introduce his lowly older brother to this kind of star power. Dean wondered just what Sam would think to know he’d already been closer to this man than any Hollywood leading lady could dare boast. Not that Dean had any intention of telling him.  
When a director saw Dean and shooed him out of the area like a persona non grata, Dean withdrew with gratitude. Sam followed him, waving an assurance to the director and said, “Sorry. They’re very strict about who they let near us. I could say you were my brother a thousand times and they’d still demand you take off.”

 _You could say it a million times and it still wouldn’t be quite true,_ Dean thought. Here, being shuffled out of a studio and apologized for by Sam, he felt as close to his little brother as he did to China. He didn’t know this fellow with the mustache and the entourage, any more than he knew that slick movie star waiting in there for his co-star to return. Sam last night had at least shown signs of being the Sam that Dean remembered, the one he used to care for so deeply (and still did, though he was loath to admit it). That guy was nowhere to be found here on set. Dean had dropped into a mirror universe, where the people he thought he knew were total strangers. He was used to that from Sam, but seeing Cas like that shook him. He wanted his weekend back, sun and sand and white sheets, Castiel’s body warm and constant, near him always, the two of them eating and sleeping and breathing as one. It was a few steps away, and he couldn’t reach out and have it back. It was frustrating.

He wandered toward the men’s room. He needed to wash his face, clear his head. The door slammed behind him just after he heard the cry of “Action!”

In the empty stillness of the restroom, Dean emptied his bladder, washed his hands, and then looked up at the mirror in front of the sink. The weariness that he hadn’t felt during his weekend was creeping onto his face now, in dark bags under his eyes and a gauntness in the hollows under his cheekbones that made him look like a ghost of himself. He rubbed his eyes, pressed his palms flat against them, tried to lessen the throbbing in his temples. 

This was a nightmare. This was the good Lord reminding him that he wasn’t allowed to be happy for any length of time before the world slapped him right back into submission again. Now he had to walk a tightrope, at home and here, for fear someone would know something. And it wasn’t only his own life or reputation on the line. Sam had something to fear, and Dean didn’t know from whom; and should Castiel be discovered as someone who didn’t favor female attentions, his career would be over in a heartbeat. Neither of them would work in this town again.

The door swung open while Dean had his hands pressed over his eyes. He didn’t bother to look up, just bent over the sink again to cool them off under the stream of water. So when the touch came, he jumped.

“I’m so sorry, Dean.” Castiel’s voice held none of Jimmy’s unctuous charm, none of the grease and oil. Instead it was rough, raw and honest again. Dean shut off the water, unable to work out how to respond. He glanced around the room - empty - and finally met Cas’ eyes in the mirror. Castiel’s face was a blank but his eyes were filled with deep, abiding sorrow. Dean melted back against the warmth of his body, just for a moment.

“I get it.” His own voice was a whisper. Anyone could come in. Sam could come in. Castiel didn’t seem to care, running his hands over Dean’s shirt sleeves, warming the skin underneath.

“If I had a million guesses, I would not have said Samuel Winchester was your brother.” Castiel sounded a little too amused for Dean’s liking but the face in the mirror was serious and stern. “You are nothing like him.”

“Yeah. Don’t be so sure about that, buddy.” Dean pushed away from the sink. He needed time - space - fresh air. Too much was going on for him. “He’s still my brother.”

Castiel tilted his head and watched Dean walk towards the door. “Family bonds can be the hardest to break.”

Dean let the door slam behind him.

* * *

Sam was playing movie star. Apparently the rule about no one being near the actors didn’t apply to extras wearing short fringe dresses. Sam had his head thrown back, laughing at what one of the girls was saying when Dean came closer. “Dean!” he yelled. “Come meet the girls.”

Dean came closer, smile pasted on. He could act just like Sam could. He instantly forgot the names, not even listening as Castiel came across the floor again, nodding to the odd man in a suit who greeted him. Dean brought another cigarette to his lips and lit it, inhaling deeply. The girl who had temporarily decided Dean might be worth her while shifted her hard, calculating eyes back to Sam while Castiel slid into his seat. 

It was only later after more set ups and shots that Dean had Sam to himself again. He’d been happy to hang around in the background, watching the nonsense of “making the magic happen.” There was no magic here. Artifice and make-up, costume and lies. Smoke and mirrors, that was more like it. There was a moment, though... Cas’ eyes had sought his out. Dean had been leaning against a concrete pillar, trying to look like he fit in. There had been a spark, a flame, that seemed to pass between them. Dean’s breath had been stolen away.

Sam’s first comment crushed any remains of Dean’s effervescence. “Novak’s an arrogant prick.”

Dean’s reply caught in his throat, anger stealing his words. Sam took his silence for assent.

“Never fucks the girls. Makes it wrong for me to. Before Ruby, of course.” Sam led the way to the car the studio had provided him. “We hitting a bar? I need a drink.”

“What’s this ‘we’ business?” Dean scowled. “I have to work tonight, remember? Or maybe you don’t.” He gave a half-laugh. All this bullshit camaraderie Sam was putting on was just that. Sam didn’t even remember what he did for a living, or when he did it.

“Oh, that’s right.” Sam sounded bored and a mite disappointed. Dean didn’t know why. It wasn’t as though his company was preferable to the girls’. He straightened up and turned to leave Sam there. Let him drink alone, or with his myriad lady friends.

He was several paces away when Sam called out behind him, “So I’ll see you at home tonight, then?”

Dean’s spine stiffened and he stopped, turned slowly, as though he was waiting for the punchline. “Excuse me.. what?”

Sam registered his confusion and squinted slightly, but he wasn’t thrown. “I’ll see you tonight. When you’re done with work.”

It took Dean several tries to get his jaw working well enough to answer. “Sam. What makes you think I said you could stay with me?”

Sam squinted further, and the corners of his mouth drooped. “Huh?” 

“‘Huh’ is not an answer. I said you could stay last night because you were upset. You and I, we are not roommates. We’re not even friends!” It sounded harsher and colder in the air than it had in his head, and Dean immediately felt the sting of shame, fearing he was being a bigger ass than Sam was in his most callous moments, and he fought back the urge to relent. This would not work. Not in a million years. Doubly so now that he knew how Sam and Castiel felt about each other, and he wasn’t willing to let go of Castiel. 

His skin ached. How had he shrunk out of that embrace in the bathroom? What he wouldn’t give now to be in Castiel’s arms for one more minute, feel his touch and think, for a moment, that everything was simple and everything would be all right. 

He met Sam’s eyes and saw terror there, fear and a sense that the bottom had fallen out of his world. Dean had Castiel’s arms, or at least the memory of them, but Sam had nothing. And Dean knew that he had never held one of those girls the way Dean and Castiel had held each other, had never given his heart away to them -- his heart had been given to the girl named Ruby, and she’d crushed it. Dean didn’t know what she looked like, but his mind provided the image of a form-fitting dress and high-heeled shoes, the spike of one of them piercing Sam’s heart through. He couldn’t leave Sam bleeding out on the floor like that. They might not be friends, but they were still, and always, brothers.

He nodded and heaved a resigned sigh. “Fine. Yeah. I’ll see you tonight. Do not drink all my liquor,” he added, in a lower voice, just in case anyone was in earshot. As though Sam hadn’t just announced he needed a drink for all to hear.

Sam raised his arm and saluted. “You have my word.” Sam slid into the car and it was on its way out of the studio before Dean realized his warning had been misplaced. Sam was much more likely to drink at the bar and then be sick all over his apartment instead.

He turned to head back into the building, thinking he might have time for a short nap before he had to begin the night’s sweeping and mopping. There was usually an alcove in the corner of the set that he could curl up in, where no one would notice him and he could steal a few minutes of shut-eye before night fell and his shift began. He ambled across the studio floor in search of one. Just for a few hours, there was no Sam and no Castiel, just him and his thoughts.

* * *

His thoughts kept him plenty busy over the hours of cleaning up and locking down, and by the time he left the studio, Dean had made a number of decisions. Chief among them being that he and Sam needed to sit down and have a manly heart-to-heart about what was going to happen from now on. When the hell that would happen he didn’t know, since he expected Sam was currently either vomiting all over his furniture as previously imagined or already out cold. But at the very least, Dean knew he’d be there in the morning, and hangover or no, Sam was going to hear him out.

Sam was awake, though, when Dean returned -- awake and relatively sober-looking, though he held a tumbler of whisky in both hands and was staring at it gloomily. His head lifted at the sound of the door opening, and his eyes met Dean’s. Fatigue was apparent there, but also the kind of worry that no amount of drinking could erase. From the looks of it, Sam had figured that out halfway through the evening and had made an early night of it.

“I don’t like this,” he said as Dean shut the door. “Doing this to you. Imposing on you like this, I don’t like doing it.”

Dean’s words dried up. Mechanically, he removed his coat and laid it over the back of a chair, moving through the room without taking his eyes off Sam, as though afraid that if he blinked, the image before his eyes might change. 

“Trust me,” Sam went on. “I’ve had enough of you covering for me, Dean. You were always there, all the way through high school, and I must have made you go through hell. I’m not interested in causing you more trouble, not now when you have a life of your own.”

The words were half-comforting, but half-insulting as well, and Dean felt the urge to snap back with some sort of a bitter retort. But then Sam bit his lip, his jaw clenched, and once more Dean couldn’t summon the words. He knew that face. He’d seen it in the worst of times. If Sam was making that face again, there was nothing Dean could do but do everything he could to erase it.

“It’s all right, Sammy,” he heard himself say. “I get it. I do.”

Sam leaned forward, hunching over his cup. He hadn’t yet taken a sip in Dean’s presence. “I honestly don’t know where else to go. If I did, I swear I’d go there instead.”

“It’s all right,” Dean said again, his tone harder. “But we have got to establish some ground rules, or this isn’t going to work.”

“Sure.” Sam’s fingers shifted nervously on the glass, but he still didn’t take a drink. “Anything.”

Dean sat, threaded his fingers together, and gazed at Sam. “First off, you need to level with me. Whatever’s going on, I need to know about it or I can’t protect you.”

Sam recoiled. “Not that. I can’t.”

“You’re under my roof.” Dean did his best to sound authoritative, booming like Dad used to when he was determined to get his way, but he didn’t have the chops for it. Sam withdrew further, and he was starting to eye his drink. _No wonder I didn’t make it as an actor,_ Dean thought ruefully. He sighed. “Fine. But in that case, we can’t be all buddy-buddy when you’re out at work. C-- Jimmy Novak was one thing, but if whoever’s targeting you knows I’m your brother, that puts me in danger. And it is not fair to put me in danger if you’re not going to tell me what’s going on. I have to keep going, the way I always do, and that means I can’t be your bodyguard.”

He was talking about safety, but he was thinking about Cas now more than ever. Dean wouldn’t survive, wouldn’t be able to breathe if he didn’t have a few moments to see him, be with him. He needed to be able to steal away, and he couldn’t do that if Sam was breathing down his neck. Maybe it was selfish of him, but Dean didn’t care. He had a spot of genuine happiness for a few days, and he couldn’t go back. It would kill him just as surely as Sam had seen his ladyfriend killed. And likely just as painfully.

Sam nodded. “Time alone. I can do that. I never think I said thanks enough.”

Dean rubbed his hand over his face. He couldn’t get into that now. “You puke, you clean it up. You eat my food, you replace it. You drink my liquor... Get the picture?”

Sam squinted at the drink in his hand then looked up and met Dean’s eyes. “You have food here?”

That was more like his little brother. Dean huffed out a half laugh, half sigh and gestured for Sam to hand over the glass. He finished the whiskey in one swallow, placed the glass in the sink and headed for the bathroom. “I’m heading to bed. Wake me in the morning and I’ll come to work with you. Again. I’m bringing a book this time.”

It was with a lighter heart that Dean let the door close behind him. Maybe he could have both - his brother and Castiel.

* * *

Dean found out a number of things during the next day. One, it was possible to sleep in those director chairs. Two, it was possible to sleep on a movie set in one of those director chairs. Three, Castiel was a sneaky, corrupting influence that Dean might be more than a little in love with. Four, a hat over your face does not stop your little brother from presuming you are awake and bothering you.

“Dean-” Sam’s whiny voice penetrated Dean’s rather pleasant dream of the sun on the ocean. He was sure that the memory of Castiel wet and gleaming was about to enter the scene any moment now. “I’m bored.”

“Get a real job,” Dean suggested, sensibly. He needed sleep - dreams - more than he needed to entertain Sam. The dream, and sleep, had left him though, and he sat up, ignoring the twinge in his back. “Or you could get me coffee?”

Sam silently handed over a steaming mug. They watched Castiel finish off his take, eyes serious and frown firmly in place. The woman he and Sam were supposed to be fighting over was acting seductively, draped over a chaise lounge. Castiel was dressed in a tuxedo, tails and top hat. Dean thought it was a little much. Castiel didn’t need the costume to look dignified and authoritarian. Castiel just had to turn his head, let that small private smile cross his face and watch you like you were the only person in the room. Dean ducked his suddenly blushing cheeks, hoping the relative darkness would hide him.

“I’ve got to pretend to be in love with her next,” Sam said, out of nowhere. Dean had almost forgotten he was there.

“Just as well you have plenty of practise with that.” Dean laughed at Sam’s splutter. He’d laughed more with his brother today than he’d laughed with him since... since Kansas. Dean had a vivid memory of a perfect Fourth of July. He’d mowed lawns for weeks, chopped down shrubs, even brushed Old Man Turner’s mean old horse three days a week until he had enough money to buy Sam and him fireworks and hamburger meat. They’d sneaked off by the lake, lit a fire and enjoyed the explosions. His dad had beaten him stupid after that, saying they both could have been burned alive. The licking had been worth it for the look of sheer happiness on Sam’s face.

In some ways, it had been the urge to see that look on Sam’s face again that had been the start of their grand California plan. Dean had hidden the money from his numerous schemes in the bottom of an empty barrel out in the yard, building up the cents and dimes and even quarters. Whenever Sam asked what it was for, Dean always had the same answer. “Dreams.”

He reached out his free arm and attempted to tousle Sam’s hair. The slick cream that held it in place was proof against his hand and Dean grimaced as he wiped the smear on his pants. Sam sent a supercilious eyebrow in his direction before strolling towards the set, adjusting his bow tie. Castiel came to join Dean in return, smiling politely at Sam as they crossed paths. His eyes darkened as they swept up and down Dean’s body. Cas looked, for lack of a better expression, hungry.

It only took that look to ignite an answering hunger in Dean. His eyes caught Castiel’s, stopping that sweep, and for a long moment they just stared, frozen in place, devouring this singular moment of possibility. Sam was busy. The two of them were free. Unwatched. Anything could happen. 

Dean sucked in a breath. Castiel held his gaze another moment; then, his eyes flickered toward a side hallway and he stepped past, body brushing Dean’s briefly, then gone. Dean counted to ten, not wanting to arouse any suspicion, then stretched his arms over his head, shook out the cramped coils of his body, and headed himself in the direction of the hall.

He wasn’t around the corner five seconds before he was grabbed, pulled through a doorway, and slammed against the wall. There was a broom or something similarly pointy poking at the small of his back but he didn’t care because Cas’ lips, those delicious glorious lips he’d missed so much, were on his, and Cas’ hands were framing his face, and broom or no broom this was where Dean had wanted to be for days now. Days, but it had felt like centuries with all the subterfuge, and Sam’s problems, and Castiel being so tantalizingly just out of reach. Heat and want billowed through him like flame, and he reached out, tangled his fingers in Cas’ hair and melted wholly into the kiss.

“Cas,” he found himself whispering against Cas’ lips. “Cas, I missed you so damn much.”

Castiel kept kissing him, but words were forming on his lips too, soft murmurs vibrating into Dean’s skin. “Every moment,” he said. “Every moment of the day you’re here this is all I want to do. Dean.”

They were saying each other’s names now, like a star-crossed couple in a film, and that’s how Dean felt, too. Whether by the sea or in a mansion’s big bed or in a broom closet, Castiel made him feel as though his life were a grand romance. 

Or perhaps it was not a grand romance but something more salacious, as Castiel’s kisses deepened and then broke from Dean’s mouth to slide along his neck. Dean groaned, arousal starting to ignite within him. He’d missed Cas’ body, and he couldn’t keep away from it now if he tried. His hands slid underneath Cas’ shirt, undoing his belt and running fingers over each inch of exposed skin. “Cas, I need,” he mumbled, reaching down to cup Castiel’s erection through the loose fabric of his pants. Castiel hissed and his head tilted back. 

Dean took the opportunity to surge forward, pushing Castiel back until he was the one pinned, their bodies pressed obscenely together against the opposite wall of the closet. Castiel groaned, defeated, and his fingers tightened at Dean’s hips, thumbs teasing the ridges of the bones that protruded there. Dean’s leg slid between Castiel’s, and he rocked forward on the balls of his feet until Cas could feel how hard he was.

“You could fuck me right here,” he whispered into the tender skin at the hollow of Castiel’s throat. “Right in this closet and nobody would know.” Another hiss, and a keening moan, and Castiel was rock-hard against him, starting to roll his hips needily into Dean’s.The undulating movement was nearly enough to unravel Dean right then and there, and he held his breath to keep under control. “Do it. Jesus, Cas. Do it.”

“I want to,” Cas was saying. His words were a blur in the flurry of activity that was Dean lowering his own trousers, baring his cock and turning around to lean forward, steady himself against the wall. Cas laid reverent hands on him. “I want to.” 

Dean shuddered. “Do it,” he said one more time. Castiel turned his head seeking one more kiss, lips bruising against Dean’s before he laid first one, then another finger on Dean’s bottom lip, seeking permission. Dean opened his mouth eagerly, sucking in Cas’ long, nimble fingers, caressing them with his tongue. He swallowed around them, taking them as deep as he could and moaning gently when Cas pulled them free with a wet slick sound.

The anticipated touch was unexpectedly gentle, a brush of calloused fingertips that teased and tormented in equal measure. Dean thrust back, wanting to feel more. Castiel chuckled darkly. “Patience is a virtue, Dean.”

“I’m not a virtuous man, Cas,” Dean returned, swallowing a gasp as Castiel thrust his fingers inside. The burn and stretch sent the air from his lungs and the way Cas scissored and corkscrewed with a speed that spoke of his own desperation. Dean placed his hands flat on the wall, bracing himself, as Castiel withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the head of his cock. This was what Dean had been imagining in his doze, in his nights alone, during his meals, showers, conversations... Castiel covered his mouth with his hand as he thrust deep, shallowly fucking to make space for himself inside Dean. Dean, in return, rose up on the balls of his feet to tilt his hips.

There were words. Dean knew there were words. He could feel Castiel’s breath on his face, hear the sounds. But Dean couldn’t make sense of them. His entire world had narrowed to the press of Cas’ body along his back, to the thrust of his hips, the way his entire body seemed alight with electricity. Dean wanted Cas to touch his cock, to give him something to thrust into. On the other hand, he knew that he would come, out of control, with the merest touch of skin on skin. He wanted - needed - this to last.

Castiel didn’t seem to understand that. His hips rolled relentlessly and he seemed to be searching for the perfect angle. Dean let out a strangled cry, muffled thankfully by Cas’ hand as Castiel found it. The tenor of the voice in his ear changed, proud and happy and encouraging. “Come for me, Dean. Come for me.”

It was too much. Dean’s body slapped forward, free from Castiel’s grip as he came, untouched, at Castiel’s command. He shouted into Castiel’s hand, overwhelmed, his whole body ringing with sensation. As it ebbed, and his knees weakened, a grin spread across his face and he pushed away from Castiel’s hand to look over his shoulder. “You bastard,” he murmured, “you’re too good. I’m gonna make you pay for that.”

Confusion only crossed Castiel’s face for a second before his eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. Dean was pressing back, his hips swinging loosely and the cheeks of his ass rubbing circles into Castiel’s flesh. Though he was bent over and standing, Dean was managing to ride his cock hard, to pull Castiel in deeper and move around him in a pulsing, wild pattern of clenches and shifts designed to drive him crazy. He arched, let Castiel see the line of his jaw and his neck, places Castiel had admired openly before; he made soft, mewling noises and whispered obscene words -- like “I love the way you fuck me” and “You’re so big inside my ass” -- and in general made for Castiel the dirtiest of all burlesque shows.

There was only so long that Castiel could keep his composure in the face of that, and his hands tightened on Dean’s hips as he arched forward and came, torture painting his face, a loud groan ripping from his throat. Dean watched, neck craned to look over his shoulder, savoring every moment of Cas out of control, desperate and unglued and utterly _his._ That’s how things ought to be. Not strangers in a studio, not awkward acquaintances. They belonged to each other and had since the moment they met, and Dean felt so good to see it written across his face. As he slid forward, letting Cas ease out of him, he had no doubt that giddy happiness was all over his own face as well.

“Now who’s the bastard?” Castiel asked, his eyes bright, a weary smile on his face, as he gathered Dean up into his arms and kissed him, deep and slow.

Dean let the kiss linger, hummed into it, then grinned and said “No, you’re still the bigger bastard of the two of us. You made me come first.”

“Made you?” Castiel chuckled, brushed a kiss across his ear. “I _let_ you.” Dean’s reproachful look just brought another laugh from him. He reached back and squeezed Dean’s bare ass and Dean growled at him. 

“You can spend the rest of the day in this closet with me, right?” Dean said, resting his cheek lazily against Castiel’s shoulder. “Nobody will notice you’re gone.”

Castiel sighed. “I wish.” He nuzzled Dean’s cheek, his own face smooth with the care of a recently applied razor -- clean-shaven for the camera, not stubbly as he’d been with a weekend of lovemaking behind him. The lack of friction felt tragic somehow. “Dean, about your brother--”

Dean shook his head. “He’s a jerk, I know. But Cas, he’s still family.”

“I know.” Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean’s shoulders and squeezed. “I wish I could have you all to myself. But I suppose we both have lives outside of each other.”

“Damn shame, but yeah.” Dean closed his eyes, shutting out everything outside the circle of Castiel’s arms, just for another moment. Then the director’s shout sounded through the hallway outside their door, and Castiel kissed Dean one more time and left the closet. Dean counted to twenty and then followed. it was time to become near-strangers again.

* * *

Dean let loose a sigh of relief. His building was still standing when he turned the corner onto his street. It wasn’t something that had been a pressing worry but more a niggle at the back of his mind. The day had gone too well - very well in some cases, as the ache at the base of his spine reminded him. Flashes of Castiel fucking into him had drifted across his mind at the most unfortunate moments during the rest of the day as they went through take after take, scene after scene. Dean had stolen a newspaper from one of the busboys as his brother pouted and glared and swooned endlessly. And that was just with the adoring chorus girls.

The light was on in the main room and so was the radio, a low buzz of static. No station would be broadcasting this late at night. Sam was slumped in Dean’s battered armchair, an empty bottle and glass explaining his heavy snoring. Dean flicked the radio off and looked at the lanky length of his brother. He really should move Sam to the sofa but there was no way he could lift him. Dean flicked the blanket out over him and switched off the light. Bone deep exhaustion dragged at him but he needed something to eat, a drink of water, something, before his mind wound down enough to sleep. 

There was a box sitting on the kitchen counter. Dean prodded it with a fork but it didn’t explode and snakes didn’t spill out of it. He opened it quickly to find a piece of pie - a little stale from sitting out so long, but pie all the same. He hoped Sam hadn’t brought it for himself, a momentary guilty conscience creeping over him. Then he decided that if Sam left it here, he had to know Dean would find it. And Dean hoped his brother remembered enough to know that available pie didn’t last long around Dean. There was milk in the cool box and a clean glass beside the sink and, with that, Dean sat down to one of the most innocent midnight feasts he’d had in a long time.

Burning woke him the next morning. More accurately, Sam’s voice yelling, plate clattering to the floor and an acrid scent. Dean pushed open his door, cold after the warmth of his blankets, to see a yellow mess lying in the middle of the floor and his brother shoving a bleeding finger into his mouth.

Dean leaned against the door jam sleepily. “What you doing, Sam?”

“Breakfast.” Sam’s voice was definitely tending towards disgruntled. “Eggs.”

“And did the nice eggs bite you?” Dean was almost wholly awake and his body protested. He couldn’t keep this up all week long. Four more nights of too little rest would leave him a lunatic, ready to howl at the moon. But it also meant four days in Castiel’s presence, four days of a possibility of Castiel dragging him into some hidden nook or cranny and having his way with him. The thought made him smile, which Sam obviously read as Dean laughing at him. He scrunched his face up and huffed as he pushed past Dean.

“You can clean it up,” Sam shot out, as he closed the door of the bathroom behind him. Living with his brother did mean he needed to guard his thoughts more, Dean mused, as he grabbed a rag from under the sink and carefully picked up the still hot mess. 

 

The day on set seemed poisoned too. Sam grumped at anyone who came near him, lights blew, cameras overheated. A small fire started in one of the standing sets. A dancing girl went over on her ankle and it swelled up at an alarming rate. Even Castiel looked perturbed, ruffled, as people rushed around him. His eyes were wide and he appeared to be shaken by the clamor of the scene change. Everything was too bright, too loud, too angry all of a sudden. Dean caught his sleeve, pulled him out of the way of all the people rushing around and together they left the studio, making their way back to Cas’ dressing room.

The dressing room was almost like a beach hut or a tiny cottage on the lot. There were a row of them - Paramount knew how to look after the talent after all. Castiel went straight to the coat stand, stripping out of his coat, his tie, his hat. Dean tossed his own hat on the table and busied himself with locking the door behind them and closing the drapes. Castiel was still trembling as Dean brought over a glass of water.

“I’m not- It’s not... It’s not fear.” Castiel chugged the water, choking a little. He slowed the pace of his drinking, let his breathing return to normal. Dean drew him into the circle of his arms, soothing as he had Sam a thousand times. “The noise-”

“Hey, Cas. It’s okay. It’s fine. You’re safe here.” Dean’s brain ran through a thousand possibilities as to why Castiel was reacting so badly. It had to be something in his past, something truly dreadful. 

“I miss you, Dean.” Cas pulled back, trying to break free almost. Dean held on tight, heart beating faster. It was as if Castiel was seeing into his thoughts. “I wake up in the morning and I reach out and I expect you to be there. I want you to be there.” Castiel’s voice was quiet, soft, sad. “I wish for you.”

Dean had no response to that beyond a gentle kiss. That one kiss soon deepened into another and another. It wasn’t the frantic coupling of the broom closet or even the lazy sun-drenched desperation of their time at Cas’ house. This was intimate, kissing for no other reason than kissing, no other reason than to tell the person he was kissing that there was no one else he’d rather be kissing. They moved, drunkenly almost, hands holding tight. Dean sat down first, abruptly, knees bent by the edge of Cas’ chaise lounge. Castiel crawled into his lap, thighs bracketing Dean’s and kept right on kissing.

The heat was starting to rise in his body, the gentle connection hardening into something needier, when a sharp rap sounded on the door. Castiel groaned and pulled his mouth from Dean’s. “They can’t need me already. They were still working on that set,” he complained, burying his head in Dean’s shoulder.

“Maybe if we’re very quiet they’ll go away,” Dean said, running a hand through Castiel’s hair. It was a bit sticky with the pomade they layered into it, but still retained the softness Dean enjoyed so much. And it was part of Cas, which meant Dean wanted to touch it.

The rapping came again, this time with a voice. “Novak. Hey, are you in there?”

“Oh, Christ,” Dean spat in a whisper. It was Sam’s voice.

Castiel rose from the chair and hurried to a mirror, straightening out his hair and smoothing out the wrinkles on his shirt. He nodded at Dean, then toward a small closet in the corner of the room. “In there,” he hissed.

“I’m sick to death of your attitude, Novak,” came Sam’s voice, hard and loud. Dean groaned. If he knew his brother, he knew Sam was a few seconds from just barging in. Obediently he headed for the closet and shut himself inside, trying hard not to make a sound.  
He peeked through the slats of the closet door. Castiel was opening the door to the room now, and his whole posture changed -- the transformation from Castiel to James Novak in real time, complete and instantaneous. Dean had to admit he was impressed. Castiel was a true actor, whether or not he was on a movie set.

“Have you seen my brother?” Sam said, peeking around the tiny space as though he might catch a glimpse of Dean. Dean swallowed and tried to plaster himself against the back wall of the closet.

“Why would I... no, of course not.”

“Are you sure? Because someone told me he had come this way.”

“Stop that.” Castiel moved forward, trying to crowd Sam back. “Stop looking around my dressing room as though I’m harboring a fugitive. Your brother’s your own responsibility. Why did you start bringing him to set, anyway?”

Sam stumbled, stepped back a pace, then advanced again, scowling. “What is the matter with you? That’s my business. You know, I’ve heard about you. You think you can run the whole set. Look at you, running back here to hide because you don’t want to handle a scene change.”

Rage deepened the flush on Castiel’s face. Dean could see the high spots on his cheeks as he retreated in the face of Sam’s persistence. “There was no need for me to be on the stage, attracting unnecessary attention.”

Sam glared. Dean was startled by the vehemence of the look. Sure, Sam had changed, had turned from the bookish boy he’d been into someone Dean wouldn’t have anything to do with if he had the choice. But the days they’d spent in too close proximity, sharing food, drink, air, had gone some way towards convincing Dean that Sam had been acting the role of movie star off set as well as on. This sudden change, this hatred and bile spilling from his lips, made Dean think the worse. He’d seen the pills and powders, tiny blocks of acrid black resin and more that some of the actors relied on. Their personalities seemed to ratchet between honey sweet and incandescent rage too.

A dark suspicion started unfurling in Dean’s gut. He felt sick. Not his brother. Not Sam.

Castiel was watching Sam like he might watch a snake. “Listen to me, Winchester.” His deep voice took on a note that seemed like nails scratching down a chalkboard to Dean. “This is a job. I show up. I do my scenes. What I do between them is none of your business.”

Sam couldn’t answer that. His breathing was faster now, fists clenched at his side and nostrils flaring. His blood was up and Dean was worried that his control would snap, that he would punch Castiel. Dean braced himself to open the door and face the hell that would break loose. Instead Sam spun on his heel, storming out of the dressing room.

Castiel slumped, all fight and strength going out of him. “You’d best go, Dean.” He poured another glass of water, refusing to look at Dean as he lifted a hand to brush it over his shoulder in comfort. Dean dropped his hand, turned, followed his brother out. He had tried to keep them separate, keep all the little mixed up bits of his life from impacting on Castiel and his extraordinary unexpected innocence. It seemed like his life had other ideas. Maybe he should stay away. 

Returning to the set, Dean noticed it was nearly time for his other job to start. He waved goodbye to Sam and left, not seeing Castiel again.

* * *

Deja vu. That was the term. Dean was bleeding in the gutter again, staring at the dark sky and wishing he was anywhere but here. His sweeping had gone as normal, ignored and alone. He’d slung the fancy hat on as he was leaving the studio and turned his feet towards home, more exhausted than normal. Then there was a shout, feet slapping hard on the pavement in a run and Dean had turned around just in time to receive a fist to the face. He’d flailed back but the two men had him off balance, delivering a beating with the sort of efficiency and precision that spoke of long practise.

“Tell your brother that we’ll come for him soon enough. You won’t keep him safe for long, Winchester.” The last was said into a dazed ear before Dean was dropped to the ground and dealt a kick in the ribs for good measure.

At least he wasn’t drunk this time, he mused, taking painful, gasping breaths.

A car screeched to a halt and he was blinded by the headlights. Running feet again, but this time they weren’t threatening but panicked. Like some kind of magical being, his coat billowing around him, Castiel appeared, silhouetted against the light.

“Are you my guardian angel?” Dean wheezed as Cas dropped to his knees beside him. Castiel’s answer was a gentle, warm hand cupping his head, lifting it from the hard concrete. Dean tried to keep his eyes open against the encroaching darkness. He needed to let Cas know he’d be fine, he’d be okay. No one needed to worry about him.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” The words were quiet and the gentle kiss on his forehead was enough to soothe him into unconsciousness.

* * *

Dean woke on the couch. For a moment, he thought he’d dreamed the beating, the rescue. It wasn’t until he realised what had woken him up - the voices straining to not shout and scream just outside behind him - that he realised he’d prefer it to have been a nightmare. Sam and Cas were hissing at each other and Sam, his baby brother, was drunkenly slurring against Castiel’s sharp, crisp, cutting words.

“It’s not my fault,” Sam was saying, voice rough.

“You brought him into it.” Castiel was adamant steel, cast iron certainty. “He wouldn’t be hurt if...”

“Dean can take care of himself. He’s not weak-” Sam’s anger was apparent, genuine this time, but Dean felt an odd surge of affection for his little brother. Maybe Sam did think about him now and then.

He looked up to see Sam and Castiel looking in at him. Dean tried to raise a hand to wave a greeting, but the movement sent a wave of pain through his side and he dropped his hand. He could feel the tightly wound cloth bandages and smell the antiseptic cream. Someone had looked after him and Dean hoped it had been Cas.

“Don’t try and move.” Sam was the first to speak, though, and he was the one who rushed forward to slide a hand under Dean’s head. “Lie down. You’re pretty banged up.”

Dean’s eyes caught Cas’ across the room, but then he was being urged back onto the cushions. He fought Sam, tried to sit up despite the sickening wave of pain that ripped through his torso. “What the hell happened to me?” he asked, turning to Sam and watching him carefully. He remembered everything clearly, but it would be interesting to see what Sam said.

Sam held his gaze. “You were attacked. Outside the studio. It’s lucky Novak found you, you could have bled out.” He sounded more annoyed than upset, as though it had been Dean’s fault for venturing outside in the first place.

Dean continued to play dumb. “Attacked? By who? Why?”

“We’re not sure. They’d fled by the time I found you.” Castiel’s voice was hushed and strange, unfamiliar in the walls of his apartment. He would have liked to have Cas come over here, spend a simple day with him, but not like this. This was just odd, and it felt like more play-acting. Dean wished he could erase it and go back to the beginning of the scene, play dead until Cas was gone and he only had his brother to deal with. 

“Well, thanks for that Mr. Novak.” Dean tried to pass the message to Cas with his eyes. Go away. My brother doesn’t need to know. Castiel nodded, once, sharply, and turned to go.

He was almost all of the way to the door when Sam suddenly drawled out, “Wait a minute. How did you know where Dean lived?”

Castiel froze. Dean could see the tension in the line of his coat and frantically searched his memory. It wasn’t like he had a good excuse. He’d been unconscious. “I told him. In the car,” Dean blurted out.

“But Novak said you’d been unconscious when he found you.” Damn Sam and his steel trap of a memory. “He must have known...” Sam made a face which suggested that he was drawing conclusions. He looked between Dean and Castiel, emotions flickering over his face. Finally he stopped. “Yeah, you must have told him.”

Dean relaxed against the couch, exhausted. He needed to rest up if he was going to make it to work tomorrow. They wouldn’t care how rough he looked as long as he showed up and left the place looking its best. “Yeah. Good night, Mr. Novak.” It was an effort but Dean kept his voice even. “Thanks.”

Castiel waved and left, closing the door quietly behind him. Sam, no doubt, would think he was an ass for not turning around and saying anything. Dean was grateful. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep up his cool facade. He watched Sam move overly carefully around the room. “Sam. Sit down. We need to talk.”

Sam looked like he might obey for once, hovering by the armchair for a long moment. There was another knock at the apartment door. Dean wondered if Castiel was going to come back and kiss him goodnight or something ridiculous. Instead, when Sam opened the door, Dean strained his neck to see a girl Dean didn’t know. She was short with long dark hair that seemed to lend her glamor and presence. “Hello, Sammy.”

Dean started at the use of the familiar, family nickname before he looked closer at his brother. Sam looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Ruby?”


	3. Moonshine Lullaby

“Ruby.”

The name fell from Sam’s lips and hung in the air. His jaw went slack, and for a moment he was frozen. Then, his arms jerking upward, he went to her. Dean saw her moving to avoid the embrace, slipping past Sam’s arms and into the room, but Sam had already closed his arms around air before he realized she’d evaded his grasp. He turned, slack-jawed still, and squinted at her. 

Ruby’s eyes darted to and fro, taking in the room, the kitchen table and the couch, lingering on Dean. “They patched you up nice,” she said, artlessly, and marched around the room, inspecting things, before turning back to Sam. “So this is the brother? All right. Not what I pictured, but all right. Anyway. Nice to see you again, Sam.”

Dean had felt a chill the moment she showed up, and now, watching her appraise the state of the apartment (and Sam and Dean themselves), a dull anger was starting to churn in his gut. This was not how a long-lost lover acted. How Sam could stand there and stare at her, his eyes shimmering like a puppy’s, was beyond him. Wasn’t Sam the least bit suspicious?

“I thought you were dead,” Sam managed to say, approaching her, arms still outstretched. 

This time she didn’t duck out, but she did lift one hand and lay it flat against his chest, stopping his approach. “We’re being watched, you know,” she chided, nodding toward Dean, voice suddenly and strangely musical. “I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t hurt you, Sam, I really do. I thought it would get you out of trouble. But it turns out it’s only gotten you deeper in it. What happened to your brother tonight, that’s my fault.” She turned, faced Dean. “Sorry, Dean.” Her voice was sweetly sincere, but the look in her eyes spoke of a calculation that kept Dean on edge.

It was the mention of Dean that seemed to bring Sam down to earth. “Your fault?” he echoed. “Ruby, what’s going on? How are you -- wait, so what I saw, that wasn’t you?” He turned to Dean, searching for answers. Dean could only give him a shrug. “I came home,” he started, haltingly, “and you were-- _somebody_ was in our bed, and there was blood everywhere--”

Ruby sighed. “I warned you, Sam. I told you to get out. I didn’t want this to fall on your shoulders, but we are where we are.” She shrugged. “I’m here to warn you. If I could find you, then they can.”

Dean felt a cold fist clench his heart. He tore his eyes away from the couple and looked at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with his eyes. Sam was genuinely in danger. He wasn’t just blowing smoke. In an odd way, Dean was pleased that it was all Ruby’s fault. Although if Sam had come home to a dead body in a blood soaked bed, no wonder his mood had been all over the place. The thought of finding Castiel in such a way made Dean’s brain unravel for a few moments. He went back to watching Sam and his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend?

“I’m just glad you’re alive,” Sam was saying, attempting once more to hold the girl close. He reminded Dean more of the brother he used to know, less of the movie star here. “We can do anything when we’re together.”

Dean could see the hard eyes over his brother’s arm. He doubted if Ruby’s mind ran in much the same way.

“I came back, Sam-” Ruby started. “Because I need help.”

“Anything.” The words were out of Sam’s mouth without hesitation. Dean stifled a groan. His stupid lovesick brother, who was now raining kisses on the top of the girl’s sleek chestnut hair. Dean thought he’d taught Sam better than that. Always find out what people were asking before you agreed to it, Sam! Despite the temptation, Dean kept silent.

Ruby finally tilted her head and allowed Sam to kiss her mouth. Dean looked away, head spinning. This doll knew exactly how to push Sam’s buttons, almost as well as Dean himself did. “Do you remember Lilith?”

“Lilith.” The word curled Sam’s tongue, and he drew back. Whoever Lilith was, Dean noted, she wasn’t a friend. “Not again.”

“Not only again, Sammy.” Ruby looked up at him through eyes at half-mast, a provocative gaze disguised as demure. “The whole time. She’s the reason you had to go through all this. She’s the one who made you think I was dead.”

“Wait.” Dean’s voice came out hoarse, but it was enough to stop them both, make them look toward him as though they’d forgotten he was in the room. “Who is this Lilith dame, and what did she do? Start from the beginning.”

Sam gazed at Dean a moment and then acquiesced, drawing back from Ruby and gesturing to her to sit on the couch. Ruby found a perch on the arm of the sofa instead and folded her hands in her lap, thinking hard. “The beginning,” she said slowly. “Well, the beginning is Prohibition. Obviously. Why the government gets to control our ability to drink ourselves into a stupor is beyond me. But in any event.” She lifted her hands briefly in a shrug, then dropped them again. “So, there are some people who like to provide... certain things that are hard to come by in the current environment.”

“You’re running with moonshiners,” Dean said flatly. “All right, fair enough. Not smart, but fair.”

“I don’t see you running away from a night’s drinking,” Sam snapped. 

Dean lifted his palms in surrender. “True. We’re all depending on other people to be dumb enough to take the risks for us.” 

Ruby shot him a look laced with poison, then smiled pure, treacly sweetness at him. _Oh, she’s a number, this one,_ Dean thought. _Dangerous._ “I work for a man named Crowley,” she said. “He’s respectable, he has honor. Lilith does not. She’ll do anything to muscle in on our territory. Including framing you for murder,” she said, pointing at Sam.

Sam drew back. “Framing me? So the cops think I...? But nobody’s...”

“Not the police, genius.” Ruby rolled her eyes. “Her own people. They think you murdered one of Crowley’s lieutenants. They want revenge.”

Sam clapped a hand to his mouth; Dean spit out an obscenity and nearly broke a rib doing it. He coughed, doubling over in pain, his rage bubbling up to the surface. Damn it. Sam had gotten himself involved in a gang war. Of all things. His brother’s taste in women! Either they were downright mad or they were torn away from him. Dean thought again of blonde ringlet curls and a smile that dipped from fun to downright dirty at the drop of a hat. Jess - sweet, innocent, cranky - had always been able to get Sam to behave but without any of this manipulation. She had been a straight shooter, near enough one of the boys, until that damn fire swept through her parents’ house. Dean reckoned that was not only the event that had set them on their path here, sent them out west, but it was probably the start of all their problems.

And this Ruby was just the latest in a long line of problems.

“All right.” Dean’s jaw was set tight, his words clipped. “So that’s why they’re going after him, then. Revenge.”

“That’s about the size of it,” Ruby said. “I hoped if I disappeared, they’d think it was me who was killed and leave Sam alone. It didn’t work. Now they’re angrier than ever and Lilith wants his blood otherwise she’s under suspicion again.” 

“Fine, then. How do we clear his name?”

Ruby’s eyes flashed. “We don’t.”

Dean was rendered speechless. But Ruby didn’t miss a beat. “There’s only one way to go with this,” she said, folding her arms and staring at Sam. “You can’t get them to think you didn’t kill their friend. So you have to convince them _they_ can’t kill _you._ You have to take out Lilith. And you have to do it in public, so word gets out that you’re in charge now. Then nobody will dare to attack you. You’ll be a killer, but you’ll be an invincible one.”

“You want me... to _kill_ Lilith?” Sam’s brows were drawn together, and his face was trembling. He ought to be horrified, Dean thought. What this Ruby was asking of him was beyond the pale. But Sam, for all his arrogance, was still woefully naive. And Dean still didn’t know him well enough to take Ruby on head-to-head without driving Sam further into her arms. Despite every muscle in his body wanting to shout _no_ , to wedge himself between them, he stood there silently and just watched, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to intervene if Sam needed it.

“I’ve thought it over for days now,” Ruby said grimly. “It’s the only way. There’s a party at Crowley’s mansion. Everyone’s going to be there. It’s a perfect opportunity. You just have to do it.”

“So wait a minute,” Sam said. “Who put that body in our bed? Who was it, and who killed him? Or her?”

“Who knows?” Ruby shrugged. “Could have been an accident. Could have been a case of mistaken identity. But somebody saw an opportunity to make us both targets. You didn’t begin it, Sammy, but now you have to end it. You have to.”

Sam was convinced. Dean could see it in his eyes, in the determined press of his lip. Dean was convinced, too, but of something else: He would find a way to stop his brother going down this path, or die trying. Sam had been a pain in his ass lately, but Dean wanted to save him now, more than ever. He finally had his brother back, and he wasn’t going to lose him again.

Even still, the way his brother was looking at this girl warned Dean that rolling in, full steam ahead and damn the icebergs, was perhaps not going to end as positively as he might hope. He pasted a smile on his face. “I’m going to leave you two lovebirds to get reacquainted. Got to see a man about a dog.”

Sam held out his free hand, the other creeping around Ruby’s waist. “But you’re hurt?”

Dean could feel the ache deep in his bones. He’d taken a few beatings in his life, and he also knew exactly how best to overcome this one. Castiel would have returned to the studio, to finish the scenes he’d needed to film. Dean knew where to find him. “I’ll be fine.”

* * *

If Chuck was surprised to see Dean clamber out of a cab, wince as he straightened and limp across the asphalt to his parked car, he didn’t let on. Instead he looked Dean up and down, nodded, and offered him a flask that contained hot coffee. Dean sipped at it gratefully, leaning against the hood of the car and waiting in companionable silence.

Castiel was not quite so sang-froid. His face froze when he saw Dean, the only sign of emotion a crisp white line of anger around his lips. He pointedly opened the door and Dean climbed into the back seat ahead of him. He was sweating slightly when he lay back against the seats. Castiel was full on angry as the car drew out of sight of the lot.

“I took you home - to bed - and left you there not three hours ago. What are you doing here?” Cas’ voice carried the signs of someone holding on to their fury with every fiber of their being. Dean noticed, however, that Castiel’s eyes couldn’t stop sweeping up and down his body. It was fear that was making him angry.

Dean reached across the seat between them and gathered Cas’ hand in his own. “I’ll tell you when we get home.”

The negative emotion seemed to drain out of Castiel at that, with something warmer and softer left in its wake. He nodded and interlaced his fingers with Dean’s. Dean drifted off, dozing. He was safe again.

* * *

They were in bed. Castiel had tucked his shoulder under Dean’s arm and led him straight there, flicking on lights as they passed through the empty rooms. Castiel had hovered for a long moment in the doorway, shirt open and undershirt on show while Dean caught his breath. Then he washed, quickly, leaving the door open, the lights on and carrying on a conversation Dean answered in grunts.

There was no love making, no hands wandering into areas that promised pain and pleasure in equal measure. Instead they lay, side by side, like an old couple married for a generation. Their joined hands lay on top of the comforter and Dean breathed easily.

“Ruby’s not dead.” The words echoed round the room, sounding like thunder over the ocean, reverberating around and around.

“Hm?” Castiel turned his head on the pillow, facing Dean, face even and unruffled. 

“Ruby. Sam’s girl. The one he thought was murdered.” Dean heaved a long sigh. “Turns out it wasn’t her he found dead. Some other poor sap. She showed up at my place after you left full of warnings and smart words. That’s why I’m here. Giving them some reunion time.” 

Castiel’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t speak. Dean guessed, though, and he half-smiled. “All right, so it’s not the only reason I’m here.” Gratified, Castiel squeezed his hand. “Cas, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. She wants Sam to do things, terrible things, and she’s got him thinking it’s the only choice. I want--” He choked off, survived a twinge in his bruised ribcage, and let out a breath. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Castiel began to say, but Dean had already drawn more breath to speak.

“I want to protect him. I mean, is that so wrong? It used to be my job, my only job. Now he’s big and famous, a movie star, but he’s still my brother. And he’s come to me for help. How can I just let him go down that road? I can’t.” Desperation and exhaustion were wringing Dean’s voice out to a thin stretch of sound, and if it weren’t Cas, he’d never forgive himself for sounding this way. But Cas understood. Cas was a part of him, now, as much as Sam was. “Maybe it sounds stupid, but I can’t abandon Sam, not now. Not after he’s finally come back to me.”

“I don’t see any reason you should abandon him,” Castiel said. “But Dean, he is a grown man. He has to make his own choices.”

Dean frowned. “Easy for you to say. You don’t even like the guy.”

“But I like you.” Castiel rolled over onto his side, his hand moving gently up Dean’s arm. “When I met you, you were angry, and you thought your brother was a horrible person. But you were free. Now I see the weight of the world on your shoulders, Dean...” He bit his lip, briefly, searched for words. “Why does he have to be your responsibility? Why can’t you let him be his own man, no matter where that takes him?”

“Because I’m his brother.” If there was a bitter bite in Dean’s voice, it was only because he couldn’t believe the question. Castiel knew how much Dean cared for Sam. He had to. And he had to know that despite everything, despite all the things they’d been through and all that had torn them apart, the feeling was mutual. “Because he’d do the same for me.” He met Castiel’s gaze, eyes blazing. 

“Would he?” The words were quiet, so quiet that Dean would almost have believed he had imagined it or, worse, heard it echoing in his own mind if he hadn’t seen Cas’ mouth move. Dean didn’t have an answer. He could feel a black void of doubt opening at the heart of everything he knew. He couldn’t move or roll over. Instead Dean just closed his eyes and ignored the look of pity Castiel shot him.

* * *

Gentle diffuse light woke Dean. His outstretched hand brushed against warm skin. He had to pry open his eyes to check that he wasn’t just dreaming. Castiel lay curled up on his side, facing towards Dean. His hair was disheveled, his lashes lying long on his cheeks. Dean drew the back of his hand, his knuckles, along the line of his jaw and smiled when Castiel batted away the touch. The ache in his body had seeped deep into his bones and Dean could identify any number of tender places. His head felt clearer though. There was no fuzz at the edge of his vision and Dean could clearly think over everything that had happened.

Instead he watched for the signs of Castiel waking: a subtle flicker of the eyes, a deeper breath, a twitch of the fingers. Nothing seemed worth worrying about when he was here, in this room that was a million miles away from everything he knew.

He became aware of Castiel’s opened eyes slowly, a slim sparkle of deep blue. Castiel’s hand slipped across the tiny stretch of white sheet between them and ran over Dean’s shoulder. There was no need for words. 

There was a certain comfort in the silence as Castiel pressed Dean down against the pillows and kissed him gently. There was familiarity in the way Cas rose and opened the window wide after the good morning caress. Dean struggled to the bathroom and, by the time he was back to bed, Castiel was shuffling back from the kitchen in his tatty robe carrying two steaming mugs and a plate piled high with slices of toast. Breakfast among the sheets was the order of the day. Castiel retrieved a book from under his side of the bed and Dean listened to the ocean and the gentle sounds of Castiel breathing and humming under his breath.

Of course, nothing lasts forever. Finally the weight of Dean’s thoughts became too much. “I don’t know what to do, Cas.”

Castiel replaced his bookmark carefully. His eyes were serious and full of worry. “I guess you have a choice. Do you stop Sam or help him?”

Dean kneaded the blankets over his stomach. “This Ruby is a real peach. I can’t see that the world would miss her much.” Castiel continued to watch him, eyes somber. “I can’t let Sam do it. I can’t.”

“Do you think he is the kind of man who will give in to her?” Castiel kept his voice soft. Dean wondered at his restraint. If he was on the other side of this, he’d be telling Castiel to hand them over to the police and run far, far away. He’d be yelling and shouting. And if someone had dared to hurt Castiel... Dean stopped imagining bloody vengeance and focused on the question.

“I don’t know.” That was as bad as wondering if Sam would stand by him no matter what. “I don’t know.”

* * *

In the end, Dean decided that he had to at least talk to Sam. Ruby passed him as he let himself into his apartment and looked him up and down with a leer. Dean felt his skin crawl.

Sam was softer around the edges than he’d been. Getting laid agreed with him as much as it agreed with Dean. To see him like this set two emotions warring in Dean’s gut -- disgust, that a woman’s touch could be such an opiate that he set judgment aside, and relief, that Sam was much less likely to resist at least talking right now. 

“Will she be all right?” he said, nodding toward the apartment door.

“She’s handled herself so far,” Sam said, pouring himself a bit of whiskey.

Dean’s lip curled. “A little early in the morning?”

Sam paused, cup halfway to his lips, and looked at it. “You may be right,” he said, setting the glass down untouched and crossing the room to the couch. Good. He was persuadable. Dean followed him to the couch, sat down next to him and leaned forward, angling his face toward Sam’s.

“I have a confession to make,” he said, slowly.

“How’s that?” Sam was perched on the edge of the couch, wary. Possibly because Dean had hardly ever been this close to him since they’d moved out here. 

“I didn’t want you moving in here,” Dean said, “and I still don’t want you to pal around with me at work. It’s embarrassing for me. But...”

Sam’s eyes were big, owlish. “But?”

Dean sighed. “But I’m glad you came to me. And it’s been nice to be--” He gestured between them. “--like this.”

“I missed you too, Dean,” Sam said, deadly serious, and Dean’s heart twinged painfully. 

But he turned and said, “Don’t. That’s not my point. My point is that I finally feel like I have my brother back, and if you do this--”

“Dean.”

“Hear me out. If you do this, it’s going to be like it was before. You’ll become a stranger to me. Because the Sam I know, the Sam I grew up with, he could never do this. He could never kill a person in cold blood.” Dean’s voice broke. “Don’t you see? That’s the Sam I missed. Not some mobbed-up moonshiner who’s embroiled in a gang war.”

“That was never your problem with me before.” Sam frowned. “Your problem was that I was famous, and you were not.”

“My problem was that you were a prick, and I wasn’t!” Dean retorted hotly. Sam tensed up, and Dean panicked. “I’m sorry. Never mind all that, forget it, it’s water under the bridge.”

“But it isn’t, Dean,” Sam said. “I was finally out of your shadow, was finally making a life for myself. I thought you’d be proud of me.”

“Proud of you?” Dean echoed. “For what? For fucking around with a thousand different girls, for turning into the kind of man who starts bar fights and acts like he owns the world?”

“For becoming my own man.” Sam spoke quietly. His eyes, Dean realized, were full of hurt. “For making my own mistakes, and not coming to you for everything anymore. I was proud of myself for that. Maybe I made some bad choices, but I grew up. Can’t you be proud of me for that?”

Dean had a moment of hearing his dad’s voice, slurred with whisky, asking him the same thing. “Can’t you be proud of me?” His dad had raised them both after his mom’s death without remarrying. He had run his own business and kept house as well as he could. He’d even seen the boys through school, though Dean would rather have been running wild in the fields behind the house. Dean had been ashamed of his father, ragged clothes and stubbled chin, drunk at noon. But Dean always knew exactly how much his father had done for him, for them both. It was just complicated.

He looked at Sam. “I’ve always been proud of you. How couldn’t I be?” They didn’t talk about it, weren’t the types of guys who needed to. Dean looked at the whisky and sighed. This was too important. “I’ve been proud of you for a long time. You were the brains and the looks. You could do it all. Anything you wanted. And look at you. Now you’re Sam Winchester. You’re going to be one of the biggest stars in Hollywood.” Dean moved across the space between them to grab at Sam’s shoulders, to keep him looking at Dean. “But you’re going to throw it all away over some girl.”

“She’s not some girl!” The words shot from Sam with the report of a repeating rifle. “She’s... I love her.”

Dean sunk back into his chair, exhausted. He ached all over and he wouldn’t get away with another mysterious absence from work. “I know. I know, Sam. But you’re my brother. I have to say something.”

Sam nodded, understanding. “You want some food?”

“Nah. I already ate at C- At a cafe.” Dean corrected himself but he could tell from the narrowing of Sam’s eyes that he didn’t quite believe it. Dean could see the wheels turning, then Sam’s face cleared. He grinned, a little salaciously for Dean’s liking, before just nodding and letting out a long, slow whistle. “What?”

“You’ve got a girl too.” The words were laden with all the annoyance of a little brother. Dean ran his hand over his face. That was a conversation for another time. He wished Sam a good night and headed back to bed.

* * *

Delaying conversations and ignoring pointed remarks led to Dean, three days later, bruises spectacular, stepping out of a car onto a gravel drive that led to the most ostentatious and ridiculous house Dean could imagine. He kept his snort inside as he thought that Cas, were he a different sort, might own this type of pink monstrosity. Well. Maybe not the pink part. But the endless balconies, the sheer height of it -- if Castiel had a little more of the persona of James Novak (or, for that matter, Samuel C. Winchester), he might be drawn to such a place.

He’d insisted on coming. Sam had tried to talk him out of it, but Dean had said, “Either you tell me where the party is, or I’ll find out on my own.” Sam had also suggested Dean at least take a girl with him. But Dean wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s bad enough I’m going to talk you out of shooting someone. You want me to subject some innocent starlet to a possible murder scene?”

“So you want to show up stag and make me vouch for you?” 

“Come on, Sam. That is hardly the worst thing you’re planning to do.”

Sam had no valid response to that, and now Dean was standing alone outside the home of one Mr. Crowley, wearing the horrendous straitjacket they called a tuxedo and praying he didn’t look too out of place.

It wasn’t Sam who waved him through the door, but Ruby, who was wearing a svelte green dress with tantalizing fringes hanging at the knee. Her hair was done up into a knot so complex Dean wondered if it would ever come down, and perched at the crown of it was a silver charm, glittering in the porchlight. She laid a hand on the arm of one of the two burly men protecting the front door. “He’s with my date,” she said, and when they grunted in protest she rolled her eyes. “Can’t you recognize Sam Winchester’s brother when you see him? Don’t make me drag him out. He’s in the middle of a poker game. You know how Crowley gets when someone interrupts his hand.”

This seemed to pacify the guard, and Dean eased through the doorway into a room like none he’d ever seen.

It was bright. Bright white. Everywhere he looked was white - the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Other than the people milling around, men in tuxedos, women in jewel coloured gowns, the only other relief from the white was the metallic glitter of chrome to accent the pure white. The light fittings, startlingly and harshly modern were as bright as any studio lights and the whole effect made Dean’s eyeballs ache.

The waiters were dressed in white too, but they were carrying silver trays of golden liquid that Dean hoped to hell wasn’t grape juice. He grabbed one, as much to have something to do with his hands as to calm the nerves twisting his stomach into knots. The bubbles made him sneeze a little. He also had to think a little differently about his host - Crowley? Was that the name Ruby had dropped? - because this was one hundred percent genuine French champagne. Dean circulated slowly through the crowd, making his way to the wall where he could watch all the exits and entrances to the room.

When he reached his spot, Ruby was joined him again. “Hello, Dean.” Her voice was almost a purr.

Dean had less patience for niceties. “Where’s Sam?”

“Like I said to Marco over there, he’s in a poker game. He does enjoy having fun, you know. I’m not sure if you know what that is.”

“Right. Because he had so much fun thinking you were dead. And it’s going to be a hoot to shoot--”

“Shh!” She pressed two fingers against his lips. “Are you crazy? Anyone could hear you.”

He shook them off. “I thought that was the point. Do it in public, where everyone can see.”

“And you’re going to stop him. Or at least attempt it.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d like to see you try. He’s got at least six inches on you.” 

“Four.” Dean scowled. “And that doesn’t mean anything.”

“So you’re going to start a fistfight with him? Sure, that’s so much more subtle.”

“Well, sweetheart, if persuasion won’t do the trick--”

“What if I told you there was a way you could stop him?” She was leaning in all of a sudden, her eyes bright with purpose. The breezy sarcasm was gone from her voice. “You want to stop him, don’t you? Any way you can?”

“Yes.” His answer was immediate. 

“And you’d do anything?”

She was testing him. He didn’t care. It was Sammy’s life on the line. “Anything.”

“Then follow me.” She turned, headed through a throng of people and out to one of the balconies. Dean waited a beat and then followed her. The night air threaded cool and thin into his lungs as he exited the crowded ballroom.

This balcony was shadowed, out of the way, and it looked down on a garden lined with tall green hedges. In the center of it all a fountain rose up, a spray of water catching the surrounding light with every droplet that surged up and then fell again into the wide pool. Dean watched the fall of water, breathing in the cooler night air now he was out of the fug of cigars and sweat.

Ruby seemed sharpened by the night air as well. She grabbed Dean’s hand and pressed a small .22 revolver into it. His hand seemed huge as it lay in the palm of his hand. A lady’s gun, he observed, almost detached. “You do it. You’d do anything for your brother. I know you would, Dean.” She kept her eyes fixed on his face and Dean flicked between them and the gun in his hand.

“I...” Dean looked at the gun again. It felt heavier than it looked but he’d handled weapons before and he knew the mechanics of this one, pearly handle and all. “I don’t even know what Lilith looks like.” His voice was soft, almost a breath rather than words but Ruby heard him. She masked most of her triumph, something that made Dean’s stomach sink. He could kill Lilith. He could kill this girl too. Get her away from Sam. He was heading for the chair now, anyway. He’d go quietly if she was out of his life. 

Dean dropped the gun in his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes instead. Ruby ran a hand over his arm and Dean felt like there was a scum left behind, like a slick of oil. The night was quiet up here, the noise of the road muffled by the gardens and canyons. Cas might miss him but he’d soon realise what a fuck-up Dean was and what a mistake it’d been to ever pick him up out of that gutter. Dean’s hand shook as he took a drag but he felt the warm smoke relax him.

“Point her out to me?” He dropped the cigarette and ground it out under his heel. He had a job to do now.

“You’ll know her when you see her.” Ruby’s voice had a touch of mischief to it, but as soon as Dean thought he saw a hint of a smile there, it had faded and she was looking at him through huge, serious eyes. It was a look so soulful she may well have learned it from Sam. “Dean, you’re doing the right thing,” she said. “You do this, and you’ll save your brother’s life. Maybe even his soul. Thank you for that.”

Dean shook his head. “Don’t thank me.”

“Believe it or not,” she said, “I do care about Sam.”

“Yeah, well... I’m not sure I believe it,” he muttered. The gun was heavy, a hot, conspicuous lump of metal against his hip. He shifted, trying to adjust to the weight of it, and wound his way back inside to the party. 

Somewhere a phonograph of tinny jazz music had been switched on, and a group of participants were dancing in a corner of the room, fringes on dresses shifting and swaying and hands clasping in a frenetic jitterbug. People danced these days like they didn’t think they’d ever get the chance again, and when the jazz started and the booze was flowing the tension ratcheted up another hundred notches. It all made Dean jumpy. He missed the soft swaying of his body against Castiel’s, the quiet, natural rhythm of the waves guiding them in a dance that made all the sense in the world. This just looked like chaos, and it wasn’t where Dean wanted to be just before he threw his life away. He closed his eyes, thought of Castiel, thought of Sam, and steeled his resolve.

Sam was there, he realized, dancing with a girl that wasn’t Ruby, wasn’t anyone Dean had seen before. He knew the look of the girls that Sam usually favored, and she fit, more or less -- ringlets of blonde hair, pale eyes and fragile, birdlike bones. Sam had her by both hands, and when she spun, the lavender-white satin of her dress sparkled. She laughed, thin lips stretching wide, and pushed herself against Sam’s chest, suddenly bold and brazenly sexual. Dean glanced around the room. He hadn’t put two and two together before, but he wondered if Sam had ever been faithful to Ruby... or, indeed, if she’d cared.

The green satin of Ruby’s dress caught the corner of his eye, and his eyes darted toward her. Ruby was standing to the side, her arms crossed, watching. Watching and smiling.

This was Lilith. And, Dean knew with a shard of dread cutting deep into his stomach, something was wrong. 

Dean’s attention was wrenched from Sam and Lilith and the way Ruby’s eyes painted the scene with malice by a commotion beside the door. The man who’d tried to refuse him entry had his hand flat against a chest Dean knew well. Castiel stood there, quietly resisting, dressed in a tuxedo with a white silk scarf around his neck. He looked handsome, utterly desirable and determined. He spoke quietly to the man and something seemed to swap between them. From where he was standing, Dean couldn’t tell if it was money or just Castiel’s name. The man stepped back and Castiel strode into the room. Dean reached the sudden conclusion that this was Castiel acting as Jimmy Novak yet again.

He tore his eyes back to Sam, ignoring the rise of Ruby’s eyebrows. The gun was heavy in his pocket and Dean was sure everyone in the room could tell what the weight distorting the line of his jacket was. Sam had his hand low on Lilith’s back now and was whispering in her ear, their stillness shocking in the middle of the frenetic dancers. Sweat started to prickle at his hairline and he looked desperately at Cas and then at Sam and finally at the smirking Ruby. Then Sam and Lilith made their way towards the interior door.

Dean couldn’t let them go. He started to work his way along the edge of the room, felt frustrated when it was taking too long and pushed through the dancers. Their cries of annoyance and irritation seemed to finally show the searching Castiel where Dean was and he angled himself to intercept Dean at the door Sam was drawing Lilith towards. There was no way Dean could catch Sam before he slipped away but he didn’t slow down, grabbing Cas and falling through the door. When the noise of the party shut off with the closing door, Dean placed his finger over Cas’ lips and looked around.

They were in a hallway. A dozen doors ornamented the ostentatious decor and Dean had no idea which one to try first. The thick carpeting seemed to swallow any sound both from within the room and in the hallway. Dean tried listening at one door, then another, panicking when he couldn’t hear anything at all. He turned to Cas, who was looking at him, eyes wide and scared. Dean had made him afraid.

“Sam...” The words seemed to catch in Dean’s throat.

Castiel looked at the floor then pinned Dean with the force of his gaze. “Let him.”

“I can’t. He’s my brother, Cas.” The door beside Dean opened to reveal Lilith, an empty bottle clutched in her hand. Sam lay splayed on the chaise lounge within, shirt buttons wrenched open nearly to his navel.

“Get us another bottle,” she ordered, holding out the green bottle. “Quickly!”

Dean looked at her, looked beyond her to see his brother flush, then grabbed the girl and pulled her out into the hallway. She looked far too fragile to be feared as much as Sam and Ruby had made out. “Get it yourself, sweetheart. Sam and I have got some business to take care of.”

Lilith pouted, drunk, and staggered down the hallway. She looked speculatively at Castiel who steered her to the door leading to the party and opened it for her. His eyes met Dean’s once more, before following him into the room with Sam. Dean felt lighter than he had done for days. If Cas was with him... Cas was with him, so everything would be all right.

“What the hell?” Sam cast suspicious eyes on Castiel. Dean ignored it for now, and ignored the heat he could feel behind him -- Castiel’s own anger, his possessiveness. Dean didn’t need to turn to know that Sam’s look was being returned in full. “What is he doing here?”

“Sam,” Dean said, his voice low and urgent. “You don’t have to do this.”

“God, not this again.” Sam sighed. His fingers fumbled to button up his shirt. “How many times have we done this? Twelve?”

“You’re not listening to me.” Dean leaned in. “You don’t have to do this... because I will.” He shifted his hip forward, let Sam’s gaze fall on the weight resting there.

“What?” The word came in twins, from in front of and behind him at once. Sam shot to his feet, fought a momentary wobble, and straightened up. Six feet four inches of fury raining down on Dean. “Dean, no. What the hell are you thinking?”

“What the hell are _you_ thinking?” Dean shot right back at him. “Sam, you’re a movie star. I’m just some nobody janitor. Let me take the fall. I’ve got nothing left to throw away.”

“Dean!” 

Sam’s eyes lifted; Dean turned. His eyes wide and round, his face shocked into slackness, Castiel was moving forward. “You are not serious. You wouldn’t do this.”

“I told you, he’s my brother.” 

“You told... him?” Sam took a step too, standing shoulder to shoulder with Dean and looking between him and Castiel. “Novak, what the hell--”

“And what am I?” Castiel’s face hurt Dean to look at. “I’m part of the nothing you’d throw away?”

“No, _I’m_ the nothing!” 

Castiel opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Dean sighed and went on.

“Come on, Cas. You think we could ever be -- anything? All I’d do is ruin your life and your career, just like Ruby did to Sam. I don’t want to be that to you.” His throat ached, his words broke, but he kept going. “You should get out of here, pretend you never showed up. Pretend you never knew me.”

In the background, Sam was whispering the word “Cas” over and over, trying to get a handle on it. Dean could feel his confusion, and it only fed his stubborn desire to be certain of this one decision. The world was a damned jumble of a place, but Dean was doing the right thing. He had to be, since nobody else around him seemed sure which end was up.

Castiel finally found his words. He stepped forward, laid his hands on Dean’s forearms, then slid his fingers upward to hook around Dean’s shoulders. “That is something I could never do,” he said. “If I lived a million years, Dean, I’d never forget you.”

The look in his eyes was starting to melt Dean’s resolve. He leaned forward, wanting to rest in those arms for one more moment before his life ended.

He didn’t make it. Sam’s fist connected with Castiel’s face first. Cas stumbled back, out of Dean’s grip. Shakily, he brushed his hand across his bleeding lip, eyes dark with fury. Dean felt ice in his blood. He’d never seen Castiel lose control like this. In passion, yes, but never anger. He held his hand out, unsure if he was stopping Cas or reassuring him. Sam was shaking out his hand, winding up, perhaps, for another blow.

Dean got there first, spinning on his heels and decking Sam with a right uppercut. He had the entire weight of his body behind it and Sam tumbled back across the chaise, looking much less smooth than before. He rubbed his chin and Dean noted, with some satisfaction, that it was already reddening.

“What the fuck are you thinking, Dean?” Sam was incandescent now. “You... He...”

Dean shrugged. There was no way out of this. Instead he turned, tugging out a handkerchief, and offered it to Cas. Castiel was watching him carefully and he took the white flag, dabbing delicately at his mouth. 

Sam spluttered behind them and Dean tore his eyes away to watch his brother run his hands through his hair. “It’s illegal. He... He corrupted you. That’s it. That’s what we’ll say if - when - it comes out.”

“He didn’t-” Dean began. He was immediately interrupted by Cas.

“I love him.” The words were in that measured gravel, untinged by anger or pain. Dean spun around again, feeling a little like a tennis referee. Castiel came closer, laying his hands on Dean’s shoulders. “You. I love you.”

Dean’s first instinct was to laugh. It wasn’t because it was funny but it was because happiness just bubbled up like the finest of champagnes (finer than the swill being served next door) and overtook him. He managed to control it to a short laugh. “You can’t love me. You _don’t_.”

“I do.” Castiel seemed surprised to be saying it. Behind them, Dean could hear Sam shifting about. He knew this moment wouldn’t last. They were all in a whole mess of trouble that Dean had no idea how to get them out of but this promise, this moment, this sheer blunt declaration was his entire world. He dipped his head in and kissed Cas, briefly, once. A radiant smile, so far from Castiel’s blank neutrality, was his response. Dean ignored Sam coming to his feet and kept his eyes on Cas.

Naturally, that was when the bubble burst. The door flew open and Ruby came through it all in a rush. “Ain’t that sweet.” She was mussed, breathing heavily and slammed the door behind her, leaning against it.. Dean felt for the gun in his pocket purely out of self-defence as the door shuddered against her weight before being forced open.

Dean would have been hard put to recognise the drunk girl he’d pulled from the room. There was no fug of alcohol, no impairment in her clenched fists. Beside her, two goons, as broad as Sam was tall, spread out threateningly, blocking all chance of escape. Ruby hovered uncertainly, looking from Dean to Lilith and back. Perhaps she was hinting that he should pull out that gun, take aim and sacrifice himself. Instead Sam grabbed at his right arm, holding it tight at his side. Castiel came up on his other side, a warm, silent support.

Lilith pointed her finger at Ruby. “I had you killed.”

“Turns out it didn’t take.” Dean wondered if taunting was really the right approach here. He tried to free his arm, only for Sam to hold on more tightly and Cas to bring his hand up to rest on Dean’s shoulder.

Lilith sneered at them all and her goons started circling the room. Dean had a sudden premonition and he froze in place. He could see Ruby, shot dead, and the three of them joining her on the carpet. This night was destined to be bloodstained, he realized, no matter what happened now... but whose blood it would be was still an open question. One thing was sure: He and Sam had been led into it like lambs to the slaughter, the two of them sucked into a war that didn’t have anything to do with them. But when people played with fire, it was those around them that got burned.

“Doesn’t matter.” Lilith shrugged, a brief lift of bony shoulders. “If I want someone dead, they’ll end up dead sooner or later. Certain things are inevitable.” It was the same thing Dean was thinking, and as she gazed at him through nearly translucent, piercing eyes, he couldn’t help feeling like she was reading his mind.

“Funny,” Ruby said, “that’s just what I was going to say.”

“Funny’s a good word for you,” Lilth shot back. “You’re looking to take over the operation, but you don’t have the guts to try to kill me yourself? Instead, you’re skulking around in the bushes trying to play hide-and-seek while your boy toys do the dirty work.” She waved a dismissive hand at Sam and Dean. 

“The plan was to kill you myself,” Ruby said. “You forced me to play dead.”

“I will give you points for that. Until my men found you here tonight, I was sure you were. But shame on you for letting your little plan leak in the first place.”

“Wait. Stop.” Sam raised his hands. “What plan is she talking about? Ruby, what’s going on here?” 

“Oh, Sam,” she said, giving an exaggerated sigh. “You really don’t have much of a brain inside that giant head of yours, do you? But then again, if you did, you would have shut up and shot this bitch ages ago and not blown my cover. The plan was for one of you two idiots to shoot her full of holes in the middle of a mobster’s mansion. Crowley goes away, Lilith drops dead, and what’s the liquor-running business to do? Somebody’s got to be there to pick up the pieces.” 

Anger balled up in Dean’s gut. He had never liked Ruby, but that was nothing compared to the hatred he was feeling now. Ruby had used Sam, used his celebrity and worse, his good heart, and taken him to the door of Hell itself. He started to speak, but was nothing he could say.

Lilith was regarding the two of them, smiling. “At least you picked attractive pawns,” she said after a beat. “I don’t doubt he would have killed for you, given half a chance. Unfortunately, he’s very talkative when he’s trying to drink himself into having the balls to pull the trigger. Thank you for the tip that Ruby was still alive, Sam. I’ll make sure to correct that.”

“I’ll do it first.”

Sam drew a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Ruby. His hands shook and his knees wobbled, but his gaze never wavered. Red with rage, he scowled hard at her. Tears were glistening at the corners of his eyes, and as Dean watched, they started to flow.

“I loved you,” he half-whispered.

“Sam, don’t.” Dean said, and for a moment the gun flashed toward him. He put up his hands, backed against Castiel, who put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Shut up, Dean!” The gun found its aim at Ruby again. Lilith’s goons had briefly raised their weapons, but Lilith had waved them down. “You betrayed me too. You lied to me, too!”

“What was I supposed to do? Just tell you about me and Cas, like it was no big deal? Never mind that he’s a man, you hate the guy. How do I tell you that?”

“I don’t know.” Sam’s tears were covering his face now, leaving red streaky blotches across his cheeks. He sniffled, and his finger went back on the safety of the gun. An ominous click sounded. “I can’t trust you. I can’t trust any of you.”

“That’s not true.” Dean’s voice rose to a shout. “I took care of you, Sam. I let you in my house, I protected you. Why do you think I’m here tonight? Why do you think I have a gun in my pocket right now? I was ready to go to jail for you. Go to hell for you. Just so you don’t make this one mistake and ruin your life!”

“My life _is_ a mistake.” Sam’s whole body was vibrating with sorrow and hurt. Dean feared for a second that he might turn the gun on himself.

“Your life is a huge success, Sam!” he said. “You’re a movie star. There are girls all over the world who would love to be with you. You’ll find the one. So you made some mistakes. So what?” He drew a breath. “I’m proud of you, Sammy,” he said softly. “I’m damn proud of you. And you’re my brother, and I love you. So please...” He trailed off, looked at Cas, who nodded at him. Heartened, Dean moved forward. “Please. Put down the gun.”

Sam wiped his hand across his nose and Dean took the chance to come closer. “This isn’t you. This isn’t Sam Winchester.”

The gun came up shakily again, pointing at Ruby. “But maybe it is Samuel C. Winchester, Dean.” The words were soft but Dean could hear him.

“Cas shakes off James Novak at a moment’s notice. You don’t have to be the movie star. Not all the time. Sometimes-” Dean shuddered out a deep breath. “Sometimes I just want my brother, man.”

Sam’s hand came down at that, the gun dangling like a toy in his massive hand. He looked wrecked, shirt askew, hair tugged all over the place and eyes red. Castiel moved past Dean, came up to Sam and whispered something low into his ear. Hesitantly, incrementally slowly, Sam handed the gun over to Castiel.

They all jumped when a slow hand clap rang through the room. “Nothing like brotherly love to set the world to rights.”

The short man wandering into the room gave off an aura of power and menace. He rivaled any studio boss or producer Dean had ever come across for sheer cocky confidence. He held his tumbler of whisky - no girlish champagne for this man - as if he would drop it at any moment. And he was backed up by two very powerful, very ugly goons who looked ready to take out everybody with the tommy guns they were pointing at the small group.

The room seemed smaller all of a sudden.

“Crowley, I can explain-” Ruby began.

The man - Crowley, their host, Dean presumed - cut her off with nothing more than a glare. “The guns, Mr. Winchester and Mr. Novak. If you please.” It was anything but a request. Dean retrieved his tiny pistol from his pocket and placed it on the ground before kicking it over to Crowley. Cas was less circumspect, holding it out almost eagerly. Dean tried to keep his eyes on Ruby, Lilith, Sam, Crowley and all four of the henchmen at once. A wrong move here would result in disaster.

In the end, Crowley stepped forward himself, picking up Dean’s gun, handing it to one of his goons, and taking the one Cas was offering. “Neither of these look like particularly masculine weapons.” Then, smooth as butter, he brought up the gun and put a bullet between Lilith’s eyes.

Time seemed to freeze. Lilith was thrown back against the wall, the deceptively small hole nothing more than a mark, an imperfection in her perfectly smooth skin. No one moved or even breathed as her eyes fluttered closed. It was the noise of her slumping to the floor that seemed to bestir everyone. Ruby let out a shout of exultation and the men who had accompanied Lilith raised their hands in surrender. Dean jumped in front of Sam and Cas, holding his hands out to keep them behind him. He didn’t even think - he just knew that if there were guns going off, he had to protect the two most important people in the world.

His display of bravery went unnoticed. Crowley turned to Ruby now, his palms outstretched, the gun still curled between two fingers. “So, pet,” he said, with a wide and completely insincere smile. “The plan was to what, send me to jail for killing Lilith?”

Ruby flushed. “Of-- of course not. I just wanted her killed for you, boss.”

“In my own house. Because that’s the way I like to do things.”

His eyebrow arched. Ruby cringed. Dean could see her searching for words. 

“No, I like it.” Crowley nodded. “It’s a change, but I can see myself making a habit of staying in the comfort of my own home while I take out meddling birds who try to muscle in on my territory.”

The turnaround happened in an instant. Ruby thought she’d actually been given a reprieve. She nodded, encouraging Crowley on. But by the end of his sentence, she realized what he was really saying. Freezing, a look of horror on her face, she shook her head. “No. Boss, I-- I brought you Lilith, I did it for you.”

But Crowley’s men already had their guns on her. And after a moment, so did Crowley. “I appreciate you showing the initiative,” he said, still smoother than velvet. He stepped forward, pressed the gun in the air toward her forehead. “But the fact remains that you brought witnesses in, and that can’t be tolerated.”

He nudged his chin to the side. Half the guns in the room immediately went to Dean, Sam and Castiel.

“We-- we’re not witnesses,” Dean said shakily. “We saw nothing. Sam, did you see anything?”

Sam wasn’t playing along. His eyes were fixed on Ruby. Sympathy sank Dean’s gut. If he’d been betrayed like this, he would be so lost too. But guns had a way of making up your mind quickly, and as Dean glanced at him, resolve shot through Sam’s eyes and he lunged forward.

A bullet grazed his elbow as he went, but Sam’s body never slowed in its motion. Toppling one of the henchmen entirely, he aimed for the second and caught his gun in midair. Another shot fired, but up toward the ceiling as Sam grappled with the gunman. “Get out of here, you two,” he shouted, turning his head toward Dean. “Hurry!” 

Castiel grabbed Dean’s hand, but Dean hung back. “Sammy!”

“Go, just go!” Even engaged in the brutal tug of war with the gunman, Sam managed to lock gazes with Dean. “I got you into this. You don’t belong in this world. You two-- you have your own life, go live it.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“You don’t have a choice!” Sam struggled forward. His voice broke over the command. “Go!”

Dean stayed frozen, staring, until the sound of another bullet blasting forward broke his haze. He looked around in time to see Ruby, frozen, in the instant before she teetered and fell forward to the ground. Sam gave a shout. Castiel squeezed Dean’s hand, and they were running before Dean could think twice. Like horses out of the gate, they powered through the halls in a rush of pounding feet, breaking out into the night just as the sound of sirens was beginning to rise on the distant roadway. The night air blew coolness across Dean’s flushed skin.

Castiel pulled him by their attached hands into the shadow of a wall covered by some creeping plant. The branches poked him in the back of his neck as Cas plastered himself to Dean’s body, keeping him still and upright and safe. The police cars flew past, painting the street patriotically white, red, blue, that eerie wail of the siren echoing from the high walls of Crowley’s neighbours. Dean couldn’t move - not only because of Castiel’s weight. Fear had seized him - fear for Sam, fear for Cas. Even fear for himself was there, somewhere, now. The reality of the blood-spattered walls sunk in. He could have been responsible for that. He could have been the one waiting for the police, the full weight of the law and the slam of the cell door. 

Castiel’s mouth was moving against his skin. Perhaps there were words there too but all Dean was aware of were the soft kisses. Dean moved then, hands clutching Castiel’s back and lips seeking and finding the warmth and solace of Cas’ mouth. There was no way he would give this up. No way that he could walk away from this man. From all that he offered. Dean stood there, half hidden in the greenery but mainly exposed under the dark skies and tried to kiss all the pain away.

The noise level ratcheting up again broke Dean out of Cas’ embrace. He took care to stay hidden, shifting back against the wall. Cars left, screeching and wailing, throwing the street of walls and gates into high relief with their shifting lights. Dean watched them go by, stumbled out a little. He needed to know - to see. That was when the doors of the mansion swung wide. The unmistakable figure of his brother was marched out, arms held by two cops and twisted in such a way that could only mean one thing - Sam was in handcuffs. Party guests spilled into the night willy nilly but all Dean could see was his brother being led, all too placidly, to the car. Dean ducked back into the bushes as it passed. His head could barely take in what he had seen.

Sam wouldn’t recover from this. Dean had let him down. He should never have left Sam there alone. 

Castiel grabbed at his shoulder when Dean would have stepped out into the path of the police car as it passed their hiding spot. Anything was better than watching his brother being hauled off to jail. No matter what had gone on between him and Ruby and that whole mess, Sam didn’t deserve this. Castiel seemed to understand, pulling Dean back into his arms. 

“I’ll help, Dean. Bail, lawyers. I’ll do it.” The words were whispered into Dean’s hair but all Dean could see was his brother’s bowed head in the back of the car.

* * *

They ended up in a diner, a milkshake in front of each of them and a piece of apple pie on a plate, fork untouched between them. The waitress hadn’t blinked an eye at their dishevelled evening wear. Los Angeles was full of men like them, Dean guessed, travelling from party to debauched party. He could smell the alcohol on himself, that fine champagne as sour as the cheapest whiskey. Castiel didn’t seem to care, concentrating instead on the straw sticking out of his glass, eyes half shuttered as he pursed his lips around it. Dean felt a totally inappropriate jolt of lust as Cas sucked his cheeks in. Then he remembered why they were here, building up their alibi.

Chuck came through the door. He wasn’t in his usual blue uniform. He was dressed in casual slacks and an old worn sweater, a flat cap on his head. He hadn’t been working tonight but when Dean had suggested grabbing a cab, Castiel had shook his head and used the phone booth in the corner of the small, bright room to summon his chauffeur. Chuck joined them at the counter, asking for a Coca Cola instead of the thick syrupy drink that Castiel was communing with. Dean understood - a cab might look suspicious, would remember the two of them travelling together to Castiel’s home by the ocean. Chuck knew and understood well enough not to care.

Castiel finally slurped the last of his milkshake and nodded to the waitress to box up the pie. Dean’s stomach was still twisting itself in knots and he wondered if he’d be able to keep anything down. The car ride was silent, quick through the deserted streets, and Dean kept his hand tangled with Castiel’s on the seat.

He didn’t intend to end up more tangled than that, but as the car chugged away and the night’s events fell harder on his shoulders, Dean crumbled, his back rounding as he hunched forward and tried to keep his breathing even. Castiel was there, a silent support, holding him by the upper arms and keeping him from pitching forward onto the floor of the car. Dean gave up the ghost of strength when the city lights began to disappear behind them, and inch by inch he gave up his strength and balance to Castiel, until he was breathing in the starch scent of his jacket, exhaling loud sighs that threatened, at their worst, to become tears.

Chuck opened the door for them and backed away, heading to his backyard garden and leaving the two of them in their hard-earned solitude.

Castiel kissed Dean’s cheeks, kissed the top of his head, and weary, drained of all strength, Dean just let him. Like a dream, like a drunken haze, he followed the vague warmth of Castiel’s body and touch into the house, into the bedroom. And then something broke, and when Castiel engulfed him in an embrace Dean let himself be taken, willingly, grabbing at Castiel’s skin with hands and a hungry mouth. He couldn’t let go until he’d been swallowed up, until all the craziness of the night had been drowned out by the pounding of his heart, the hot beat of Castiel’s pulse against his. When he couldn’t take it anymore, when the heat and the closeness were unbearable, he gasped against Castiel’s mouth: “Cas, love you. Love you so much. Don’t, don’t leave me.”

“I never will,” Castiel replied. “Not for anything. Never again.”

* * *

The newspaper the next morning confirmed the worst of Dean’s fears. The picture on the front wasn’t of Crowley, wasn’t - thankfully - of Lilith and Ruby’s bodies but was of his brother being led in handcuffs through the doors of a police station. “Star Turned Murderer” the headline screamed, and Dean was afraid to read the accompanying story. He forced his eyes over the tight newsprint, having to stop and read the paragraphs over and over again until they sunk in.

The jangle of the telephone forced him to stop rereading the words. He looked up as Castiel left the kitchen and answered the telephone in the hallway. The sun was shining over the water, making it shimmer, and the beach looked as perfect and untouched as ever. The steam rose off his coffee. And Dean was waiting for it all to screech to an end. Even for a cloud to hide that brilliant all-seeing sun.

Instead Castiel stumbled back into the room, a smile on his face. Dean found himself smiling before he stopped, remembering he didn’t have much to smile about.

“Sam’s being released,” Cas told him. “All charges dropped.”

“What?” The words had Dean half out of his chair.

Castiel came close, taking Dean into his arms. “He’s free. They got Crowley. Sam’s free.”

Dean stared in amazement. The words seemed choked in his throat. If it hadn’t been for the warmth of Castiel’s arms around him, of the scent of his skin, Dean would have believed this to all be some fantastical dream. “What? Do you know what happened?” Dean asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the tattered peace he’d managed to gather around him.

“Sam called. I sent Chuck to get him.”

“Called? What do you mean he called, what did he sa--” Dean was asking the questions, but he was too lost to understand the answers, and Castiel knew it. Castiel didn’t bother answering. he just punctuated each of Dean’s confused words with caresses and soft kisses.The touches, like glue, pulled together pieces of Dean’s jumbled heart, gave him balance and clarity, and eventually he had enough to stop asking. Instead, he pulled Cas out of the room, down the short hallway to the bedroom, and looked at him with silent, pleading eyes. Again, without a word of answer, Castiel knew what he was begging for.

This was different from the frenzy of last night. This was about discovering skin by pulling off clothes and using touch instead of words to reaffirm the commitment Dean had demanded and so desperately needed. Every move they made, every kiss and caress and spread of legs and final, awe inspiring moment was dedicated to saying love and stay and permanence. Like two actors in a silent film, they communicated with their eyes, with the pressure of fingertips against skin, and the words they weren’t saying flashed white-on-black in the screen of their mind, as clear and readable as if they had been spoken aloud. But when Dean came, his body blazing with the heat of Castiel’s touches and kisses, he opened his mouth and broke the silence with a shout of mingled release and joy.

Cas dragged Dean into the shower afterward, and soon they were dressed again, seated with fresh coffee provided by Marta. Dean had blushed when he saw her, hoping she hadn’t heard the way he’d shouted when he came. His throat had ached pleasantly after. She showed no signs of embarrassment, going so far as to pat him on the shoulder in approval.

“Maybe-” Castiel began. Then he stopped and drank his coffee, rustling the paper.

“Mmmm?” Dean didn’t think Castiel wanted anything beyond a lazy query. Too much and he would tell Dean to leave it. Another warm buzz of contentment, knowing everything was going to work out, knowing the person you were... fuck... knowing the man you were in love with so well, spread through Dean.

“I think I should contact my brothers again.”

Dean thought about it. “It’d be nice to meet your family. You know mine. All of mine.”

Castiel shrugged and Dean dropped the topic, enjoying the silence. If there was a tinge of envy in the casual way Castiel spoke about his brothers, intimating a large family of the kind Dean had never known, it was tempered by the knowledge that if one brother could give Dean this degree of hell, imagine having several. More drama was lurking there than Dean knew about, and he resolved to do what he could to help Castiel mend fences as Castiel had done for him. 

Perhaps his mind had lingered on brothers a bit too long, because a moment later, a commotion arose from outside, the slam of a car door and footsteps pounding up the walk. Marta, in the background, fluttered nervously, dishes rattling in the sink. She muttered something in Spanish and hurried to dry her dripping hands. When the kitchen doorway was full of a overly large, exhausted-looking Sam Winchester, she very nearly fainted.

Sam looked, well, rough. He was wearing most of his clothes from the night before - a suit jacket, his once crisp white shirt wrinkled, dirty and with a faint patina of blood spatter. He carried off his night’s growth of beard with panache, making it look rugged rather than scruffy. The dark circles under his eyes were serious, exhaustion and sadness making him altogether weary. Dean stumbled out of his chair.

There was a moment that stretched like the string on a bow for a long time.Then, without speaking, Dean and Sam hugged each other hard. There was an attempt to disguise it as a manly embrace with much patting on the back as they separated, but from the soft look in Castiel’s eye, Dean hadn’t disguised it as much as he’d hoped. Sam felt solid, there and like his brother once more.

“What’s a guy got to do to get some coffee around here?” Sam asked, voice artificially light. Marta left out a soft sound and there was a clatter of cups from her direction. Sam turned a lazy grin her way and wandered towards the counter. “Thank you, ma’am.” 

Marta flapped her dishcloth at him, dipped a nod at Castiel and fussed out of the kitchen, letting the door shut behind her. Dean kicked out a seat as Castiel gestured to it. Sam looked between them, snorted, and then lowered himself down carefully. He took a deep draught from the cup, eyes flickering over his brother and Castiel before he laid his arms on the table and leaned on them heavily.

“Guess we need to talk.”

Dean nodded, unsure of where to start. “Ruby...”

“I should have expected her to have a back up plan. If she’d know about Novak here, she probably would have tried to get him involved.” Sam looked at Castiel, hesitating over his name.

“Castiel. My name is Castiel.” Cas rose to bring over the coffee pot from the stove and add some steaming hot liquid to Sam’s cup and then his own. Dean refused a top up. “You should call me that. Especially...” Cas shot a look at Dean.

Sam drawled out, “Yeah. Castiel. I like it.” Sam sighed. “Ruby always had an eye for herself. I knew that. I didn’t mind that. She and I were matched.”

“Why did you...?” Dean scratched at his head.

“We were a matched pair, like I said.” Sam took a drink. “I’m glad you didn’t shoot her, Dean. Or Lilith.” His voice was serious, quiet and wholly apologetic. “I was ready to be locked up. What’s one more scandal? Might make the box office receipts perk up.”

“What happened, Sam?” Castiel watched him directly, eyes penetrating. “Was there new evidence? Evidence from the guns?”

Sam let out a strangled laugh. “Nothing so fancy. One of Lilith’s goons decided to try playing on the right side of the fence for a change. He shopped Crowley, Lilith and the whole mess of it. He decided that I was the hero of the whole piece. Out to save the girls. And I think he confessed it all to the one member of LAPD who wasn’t on Crowley’s payroll.” Sam shook his head, taking a drink. “Lousy luck. I don’t know. I heard they caught Crowley at the border. Then they cut me loose all apologetic-like.”

Dean patted at Cas’ hand on his thigh. He’d come close to losing his brother and it had all come down to a sudden attack of conscience on the part of some crony. “That’s some dumb luck you’ve got there, Sam,” he said, and his voice came out crankier than he expected. He just didn’t like the idea of having done nothing to help. 

“Luck,” Castiel said, “or fate.”

Dean looked at him and all his discontent drained away. Cas could do that to him, say exactly the right thing at the right time, and Dean had a feeling if he examined him for a lifetime he’d never be able to unravel the mystery of why or how. Not that he’d mind trying. As long as Cas was there for him to examine.

Sam cleared his throat, and Dean started. They’d been looking at each other for seconds on end, hadn’t they? He averted his eyes quickly, but that didn’t spare him from Sam’s smirk or his keen gaze. “Whatever you want to call it,” he said, “it seems that I’m not the biggest lawbreaker in the room anymore.”

Castiel’s hand tightened on Dean’s thigh. Dean patted it again. He wasn’t nervous, not about this. Not after he’d nearly lost them both. The fact of them sitting in this kitchen together was a miracle, and if Dean knew one thing, he knew that nobody there would dare to disturb that. He gazed at Sam evenly. “I’ve never been known for playing by the rules, Sammy. You ought to know that by now.”

“We’ve both had our rebellion.” Sam’s smile was gentle. “Listen, I’m not going to deny it’s odd to me. But you’re happy, aren’t you?”

Dean half-nodded, his lips quirking. It was answer enough.

“Then I’m not going to worry about it. Stay happy. Dean. N.... Castiel. I don’t need to know the details.”

Dean scoffed. “Like we’d tell you.”

Sam leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He heaved a long sigh. “I could use a shower,” he complained. “That cell was not exactly the Waldorf-Astoria. Do you mind--”

“Sometimes,” Castiel said quietly, “I find it cleansing to bathe in the sea.”

Dean’s jaw dropped. Sam frowned. The two of them stared completely blankly at Castiel. If it were a scene in a movie, it would have been punctuated with a comic blare of trumpets. 

“I could lend you a pair of swimming trunks,” Castiel went on, completely oblivious to the awkwardness. “Dean and I bathed there during the first weekend we spent together...”

Dean’s hand came down hard on his, startling him into silence. “That’s enough, Cas, you don’t need to horrify him, the poor man’s right out of jail!”

Sam burst into laughter. Doubling over in his chair, he wiped tears from his face. “I definitely like Castiel better than I like James Novak,” he said when he’d regained his composure. “Sure. Why not? I could use a swim.”

Dean watched his brother and his... lover leave the room. They seemed oddly at ease. Life and death experiences might do that to someone, Dean reckoned. He sipped at the coffee, realising that he didn’t mind that the house was no longer silent. Indeed, between the chatter from Marta, the way Sam’s familiar voice answered Castiel’s low queries and the constant low rush of the ocean, Dean wondered how the house had ever been quiet at all. There was a low banging sound from the garden, the watering system kicking in. 

He wandered over to the deck, breathing in fresh, free air and Castiel came to join him. Wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist and hooked his chin over Dean’s shoulder and kissed his cheek softly. The last remaining tension drained out of him. It may not be quiet anymore, but it certainly was peaceful.


End file.
